A Side Of You I Never Knew
by MyNameIsDoodle
Summary: After the explosion at the pool, Moriarty vanished, and as did Sherlock's ability to resist his addiction. In order to protect John, who he finds he is developing strong feelings for, he pushes him away but he can't face Moriarty alone..at least, not if he wants to survive.. eventual JohnLock. Drug Addiction and Abuse.
1. Prologue: The Aftermath

"Probably my answer's crossed yours."

The feeling of relief that had claimed his body merely moments ago was dimming rapidly as he pointed the gun directly at Moriarty and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to feel it again, to know that both he and John were safe for another day at least. His mind that usually had so much space for further information, felt cluttered and messy and he could not focus. His body seemed to be very much against him thinking, as everything seemed to intensify. The blood in his veins felt scalding hot against his skin, his muscles ached from how tightly they were bunched together, an icy drop in his gut actually hurt like a stab in the stomach, his breathing was too loud and too distracting. Everything was screaming at him that he'd let his guard down, that he'd made a mistake, that he was going to die...that John was going to die...the latter hurt the most.

He chanced a small glimpse over at the doctor now. The fear was scarily plain on his companion's face. Sherlock noted the beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead; he had gulped three times in the space of approximately fourteen seconds; his knees were knocking badly against one another and his arms that were holding him in his crouch were trembling.

Moriarty was wearing an antagonizing smirk, hands tucked in his trouser pockets, back straight, keen, and interested. He didn't seem fazed at all to have a gun pointed in his direction. It was as if he was impervious to bullets and was in fact looking forward to the instant the trigger was pulled just so he could devour the look of shock on Sherlock's face. That was not the case though; a bullet could in fact be the end of him but this seemed to make him even more excited.

The red dots swayed over both Sherlock and Watson, as if dancing over their bodies in anticipation. Despite them being undetectable by feeling alone, it felt as if they were scorching John's skin and burning through his clothes. He felt like he was wearing a second layer of skin made entirely of freezing cold sweat, and his lips refused to close as he inhaled deep breath after deep breath.

The gun lowered.

John's chest constricted.

Sherlock's breath hitched and died on his tongue, starving him for a few seconds of oxygen.

Jim Moriarty twisted his head as if a kink was knotted in the back of it and he was trying to loosen it.

John swallowed hard for the fourth time.

Sherlock tilted his pale eyes upwards to greet Moriarty's, the contact painful as a fist.

Moriarty's face was blank for an instant and then a faint smile spread across his mouth.

To Sherlock Holmes, it was as if the smile was daring him to do it. Pushing and prodding at him, shouting repeatedly that he would not dare do it; he didn't have the guts to go through with it.

And Sherlock, well needless to say he thrived off surprising people.

**[SH]**

Lestrade could not prevent his jaw from dropping at the sight of the old pool, the smoke spiralling upwards like the black soul of the building rising upwards into the skies. He swept his tongue over extremely dry lips and ran a hand over his mouth, turning his back temporarily on the chilling sight. The worst thing was that he knew, somewhere buried God knows how deep under that rubble laid the bodies of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Whether they were both dead, or one dead and the other alive, or, even less likely, both alive, he couldn't be certain but he couldn't stand waiting. No matter the outcome, he just wanted the waiting to be over.

It seemed like hours before Lestrade heard anything. A hand touched his upper arm lightly and gave it a feeble squeeze, mutely requesting him to turn around. He obliged, only partially recognising that the hand holding him belonged to Sally Donovan. The breath in his lungs was kidnapped and held hostage in his throat, choking him. The paramedics were carrying a stretcher out of the building. Lestrade, unable to pick up any details from the distance he was standing, rushed forwards with Sergeant Donovan hot at his heels.

As he drew nearer, the detective inspector identified the still form being carried away to be the one of Doctor Watson, and the doctor was awake, putting one half of Lestrade's knotted mind to rest. John had a few scratches on his face, one that bled pretty badly on his right cheek, and his face and clothing were patchy with soot. He seemed to have gotten away quite lucky, though Lestrade noticed a deep red puddle on the stretcher by the doctor's right leg, and it was something that the paramedics seemed to be paying particular attention to. Although he was blatantly in a great amount of pain, John was attempting to sit up only to be coaxed back down by hasty hands.

"Try not to move, doctor," Lestrade called over the sounds of the sirens and the commotion bursting vibrantly around them.

"Sh—Sherlo—" John Watson rasped, eyes fluttering. It didn't take the mind of the only consulting detective to piece together what the injured man was trying to say. Lestrade pressed his lips together in a grim line and allowed himself to fall behind, watching as they loaded the doctor into the ambulance.

Even though Doctor Watson was now pretty much out of the woods, Lestrade could not allow any element of comfort to flood through his system. Not only would it be a heavy loss to him in a professional manner, the loss of Sherlock Holmes, a dear friend, would be a great one to Lestrade and he did not feel in the mood to be shedding tears. He had too much going on right now to be held back by grief. It was a bleak way to look at it, but it was true.

Lestrade turned back around, watching with a heavy heart as the firefighters put out the last remnants of the fire. The blackness of the night was melting into a dull blue as the night turned old and morning burned young and fresh just behind the clouds. He probably would have admired the sight of the silhouettes of the dozens of men trying their best to kill the flames with the smoke twisting smoothly upwards...however, Lestrade had an attachment to this scene so he could not find it beautiful, at least not until Sherlock was carried safely away from it.

"No word on Sherlock?" he asked softly, not entirely sure, to whom he was inquiring.

"Not one, sir," Donovan answered, her tone carrying a heavy undertone of dismay.

Lestrade could only nod.

It was at least half an hour after the doctor had been driven away to the nearest hospital before any word was uttered on the condition of the only consulting detective in the world. Another stretcher was brought forth, and for a split second, Lestrade expected it to be the body of Moriarty, who they had also received no word on. Then he saw the curly dark locks, and that was enough to let him groan a sigh of relief, sprinting forwards. It was no cruel trick of the eye, as the identity was confirmed.

Sherlock Holmes lay still, stiller than Lestrade had ever seen him, with his right arm hanging off of the side of the stretcher, his head turned to the left to reveal a gleaming, startling amount of blood on his face. Unlike his companion, Sherlock was not conscious and did not express a single word. The paramedics were moving at a much faster pace, and Lestrade struggled to keep up. It was near impossible for him to see the extent of Holmes' wounds and this left him feeling panicked.

"Will he be alright?" he demanded once they had started to load him into the vehicle.

"He's in a critical state right now, Sir," a woman returned brusquely, putting a hand to his chest to prevent him from literally clambering into the ambulance himself. "I'm afraid you cannot travel with him, but you can follow on behind?" her cool eyes met his, though a hint of worry was hidden there.

Lestrade wanted to, he honestly did, but he had to wait behind until he heard something of Moriarty. Until that happened, he couldn't leave the site, and he wouldn't know anything of either of the men if anything should go wrong. He felt useless as he watched the doors slam shut, hardly aware the woman had left to hop into the front passenger seat. Not even the piercing shriek of the sirens stirred him; he could only watch as his friend was driven swiftly away, either to be fixed or to die...

Moriarty wasn't found...no trace of him was in fact. Lestrade refused to leave until it was a fact that Jim Moriarty was nowhere to be found, and he only left at quarter to six in the morning, by which time he was both emotionally and physically drained.

"You should go home," Anderson offered, with none of that arrogance that was usually moulded into whatever words he stated.

Lestrade glanced up at him and bade him a wry smile. "If I didn't know any better, Anderson, I'd say that you were kind of worried about our favourite psychopath." He delivered Anderson's own words with a helping of bitterness, enough to cause the man to blush. "No, no... that isn't fair. He isn't a psychopath..." Lestrade grinned. "He's our favourite sociopath."

**[SH]**

John's ears were ringing. That was the first thing he noticed. His ears were ringing severely and every other sound was a muffled drone that made his eardrums feel numb and swollen. His leg was pulsing painfully and he tried to wind his fingers around his thigh where it hurt the greatest only to have his hand pried tenderly away by another that did not belong to him and was clad in a white rubber glove.

Smoke. The smoke was hanging thickly up above him like a misty black ceiling and every now and then, a corner of a head would penetrate his line of vision. John registered that he was being carried away, and that he had in fact survived the explosion. That was when it hit him really hard. The explosion had actually happened; Sherlock had squeezed the trigger and the solid walls had been blown down as if they were merely paper cards all along. What had become of Moriarty? What had become of Sherlock? What had become of him?

Without grasping what he was doing, John was struggling to sit upwards. He only noticed what he had been doing when he had been lowered back down, causing his head to swim. He faintly heard a voice telling him to relax or at least something along those lines.

"Sh—Sherlo—" that was all he could say even though he was not telling his brain to say that. He wanted to ask what had become of his friend, he wanted to know what had happened to him, what was the extent of his injuries, if he was going to be okay, if Sherlock was even alive. Moriarty was not any of his concern currently, and he seriously couldn't care less if the man had suffered to his final breath. In fact, that would probably make him feel ten times better. None of those things surfaced to his mouth however; he could only ask himself those questions, and he had no idea whatsoever.

The next thing he knew, his eyes were sealed shut despite not recalling closing them. When they fluttered open, the sight of the smoke had dispersed and was replaced by a startling amount of pure white. It made his eyes ache so he shut them again, welcoming the darkness as the other was too bright for him to handle at that time.

"Doctor Watson?"

That gruff voice could only belong to one person and John felt obligated to peel his eyes open and look the detective inspector in the face. When he did, he could hardly believe the man sitting at his bedside was the same Lestrade that had consistently appeared in control and calm. The Lestrade John saw then, was dishevelled and weary, as if he had been viciously beaten mentally. He did not even muster a kinder expression when their eyes touched, instead he looked even graver. John did not like that look one bit, and he sat straight up, blocking the wave of nausea that rippled through him as he did so.

"Wh-what happened?" John said hoarsely, his throat so tight that he was forced into a short yet painful coughing fit. Lestrade handed him a glass of water from the bedside automatically, as if he had been prepared for such a thing. Once his coughs had subsided, the detective inspector spoke.

"You're a lucky man, Doctor Watson," he said slowly, running a hand through his short iron-grey hair. "A real damn lucky bloke. I would not say you got away unscathed but close considering the aftermath. A bullet just about missed your leg but it did leave a nasty scratch...you may need to pick up that old cane of yours for a couple of days. Other than that, you're just badly bruised and your face may be a bit scary to look at in the dark for a while but—" he let out a short dry laugh, his eyes glimmering as he cast them up towards the ceiling, the light twinkling off of the excess moisture it found there. John knew something was wrong then; something very, very wrong.

"What about Sherlock?" he pressed, a chill tickling his spine as he thought back on the man who he was confronting the inspector about. The man who had offered him a place to stay; the man who had brought out such intense levels of emotions out of him both positive and negative; the man who had transformed his life from being one that lacked anything to one that was now getting too big and was expanding just to make room. Sherlock Holmes. What had happened to that man?

Lestrade exhaled shakily. "Sherlock is...alive," he said, seeming reluctant to develop that sentence but did once Doctor Watson nodded in beckoning. "But it's critical, John. Nothing is for certain right now. I don't even know—" for an instant it seemed likely Lestrade was going to cry. "I don't even know what's wrong with him. All I know is that it isn't looking good."

Sherlock Holmes had been akin to a godlike figure in John's eyes for quite some time now. A highly flawed and unstable god he would agilely add though nevertheless, an impervious and unbreakable figure. The concept of that man being on death's door was intangible. It was like the sun falling. Just randomly deciding it could not be bothered to stick to the sky anymore. John had not known Sherlock for years like Lestrade had, in fact it hadn't even been one year yet since they moved in together. Nonetheless, John could not extract a memory from his past without Sherlock in it or at least somehow tied to him. Trying to imagine a world where he isn't the companion of the only consulting detective, was near enough impossible. It was incomprehensible and he refused to even contemplate on it. Why? Because Sherlock was going to somehow get through this.

Lestrade seemed to see right through John as if he was glass, as he said; "This isn't the first time he's faced death, John, but it is the closest. You—you can't just trick yourself into thinking he is going to be sitting up in his bed in no time demanding cases and playing the violin and bringing all your deepest and darkest secrets out into the daylight. He—as inhuman as he appears sometimes—he really is just a man."

John flushed and turned away, staring hard out of the window to his right, his mind churning all of his thoughts round and round his skull. His thoughts swerved painfully to the moment when he was heading out of the door, stuck in the threshold in shock when Sherlock had offered to get the milk. He should have known something was amiss, should have demanded to know what was going on, should have just text Sarah and put their plans on hold. John was vaguely aware he couldn't have possibly glued his eyes to Holmes all night, but at least he could have been at his side when they faced Moriarty, rather than being used as a weapon against his companion. If John had stayed, maybe none of this would have happened. If he had checked with Mycroft that the memory stick had in fact been handed over, maybe he would be making breakfast in their flat complaining about some limb being discovered in the cupboard. A sneaky smile would spread across Sherlock's face when he thought John couldn't see, secretly enjoying their banter, their relationship that was at times on the edge of being not that dissimilar to that of an old married couple.

"He better be okay," John murmured fractionally to himself.

**[SH]**

I've been reliably informed that I don't have one...

We both know that's not _quite_ true...

**[TBC]**

**This is only the prologue so it will be considerably shorter than the rest of the chapters. I am an avid fan of Sherlock Holmes; the original novels, the films and the BBC television series so I have been looking forward to writing a fanfiction for it for quite some time. Please review and favourite, for there is much more to come.**

**~ Maisy-Shane**


	2. One: Not The Fighting Kind

_**Please review and let me know how you think this is going. **_

_**Maisy-Shane**_

"You've hardly left my side have you?"

John started awake at the sound of that deep baritone voice that could not possibly come from anyone else other than—the greeting of dark and pale eyes confirmed this. He didn't quite react for a while, just staring into that face that seemed to be demonstrating a look of amusement and silent gratitude. John's heart hiccupped and restrained a heave of relief that had swelled in his chest. Sherlock was sitting up in the bed as if he'd just awoken from a delicious amount of sleep. His complexion was more pallid that usual and the bandage wound around his forehead under his curls being a giveaway that that wasn't the case, but if it weren't for those two things, John could have easily believed that Sherlock had simply had a good night's rest.

"Most people when they wake up," John said croakily. "Ask how long they've been out and where they are..."

"You forget that I am not most people," Sherlock smiled. "I knew before I'd even opened my eyes that I was in the hospital. Does our flat stink of disinfectant and elderly people?"

John felt as if he could cry; he wasn't really the crying type. He had seen dear friends of his killed in action before his very eyes, and only then would he release a few solitary tears. Not because he was heartless, but because he could not stand just sitting there bawling his eyes out; it made him feel vulnerable and childish. Though right then, he came very close to crying. John told himself it was because he was scared of resuming a normal dull life, yet it was clearly more to do with the fact that his flatmate hadn't been killed. If he was not under the interrogating cool eye of the man in question, he may have just caved to this urge.

"I'm..." Sherlock started, and then paused for an elongated amount of time, which John granted him patiently. "I'm glad that you're erm..." he cast his gaze down. He didn't really have to elaborate any further. The doctor knew exactly what he was attempting to say.

"Me too," John amended for him. "You got off worse than I did though. You have—"

"Judging on the amount of pain I feel in my right side I would assume I have lower rib fracture, luckily not damaging the diaphragm because that would have just slowed down my recovery. I have a wide cut on the right-hand corner of my forehead that required eight—no," his eyes leaned upwards in thought. "ten stitches and I have a colles' fracture in my left wrist. All of that with additional cuts and bruises, which should take over a month to heal from though it should take me a couple of weeks."

John stared with raised and went to pry into how he had gotten all of that information, but decided otherwise and closed his mouth. "I'd give yourself a bit longer than a week to recuperate," he said after the notion had jabbed hard at his brain for a handful of minutes.

"Do you know how boring recuperation is, John?" Sherlock said sharply, grimacing and brushing his fingertips over the bandage on his forehead. John went to ask if he was okay when the other man pressed on. "My brain will just decay and then what use will I be to anyone? No, a week will do fine thank you. It's bad enough that I'm losing out a week on finding Moriarty."

John blinked. "M-Moriarty?" he stammered. "How do you know he isn't de—?"

"Oh come on," Sherlock sounded exasperated, throwing his good hand into the air in frustration. "It's not hard, John. A man like Moriarty wouldn't be killed off so easily, don't you ever read?"

"Read? What does reading have to—?"

Again, he was cut off midstream. "Moriarty is what is known as my archnemesis...well, other than my brother of course. He won't be killed off so soon."

"This isn't a story plot, Sherlock," John's frown was nearly engraved into his features. "We just about survived that ourselves."

"Ah but you see, Moriarty is like—like my dark half, he is just as brilliant and calculating as I am," Sherlock said, a grin swerving up the corners of his lips. "And no doubt just as lucky. They have not found a body, I didn't expect them to. I didn't pull the trigger to kill him, John."

"Then, why did you?"

For the first time since waking up, Sherlock was silent and his smile faded swiftly. John would have compared the reaction to that of nervousness or embarrassment if he hadn't convinced himself Sherlock was unable to feel such emotions. Sherlock went to speak when the door opened and Lestrade let himself in, a look of relief relaxing his at first taunt features.

"You bloody bastard," Lestrade exclaimed, laughing as he crossed the room, taking in the image of a rather irritated looking Sherlock. "You had me going there for a minute."

"Oh no, it's been far longer than a minute, detective inspector," Sherlock retorted. "I've been unconscious for approximately a week judging by the smell of both you and Doctor Watson."

"The smell of us?" Lestrade sounded confused as to whether to take it as a joke or as a truth.

"Yes, the smell of your deodorant is faint. Both of yours," Sherlock explained hastily with a tone of boredom laced in there. "You and John usually apply a fresh amount twice a day, once in the morning and once after your evening showers. The scent is there so I assume you have both been home at least—four times? However, it is not as strong as it usually is, and it is coming more from your coat than your actual clothing so that means it is a natural odour that has moulded into your clothes rather than coming from you."

"But how did you get a week from that?" Lestrade did not appear impressed or in awe as usual, in fact he seemed concerned. "You've only been unconscious for three days, Sherlock."

Stunned silence claimed the room. Sherlock's cheeks went a faint shade of pink and he refused to meet either of their stares. John felt like he should assure his flatmate that no one was right all of the time and that he had just come out of a coma after all, though he doubted either of those things would console him.

Sherlock inhaled shakily. "I guess three days have allowed my brain to go somewhat stagnant," he muttered.

"Take it easy old boy," Lestrade said, his intonation carrying very little conviction. "You were only off by a couple of days."

Sherlock didn't seem at all reassured and didn't speak again for a long period of time. The atmosphere was too awkward for either John or Lestrade to stand; the detective inspector excused himself first claiming his phone had gone off. John followed after sitting in absolute stillness for around forty minutes.

"I'm going back to the flat, to get changed and have lunch with Sarah," John said as he rose from his seat, picking up his cane and pulling on his jacket. "Will you be alright?" he received no answer. He stood there watching Sherlock for a few minutes, awaiting some form of a response and, once again, obtained none. "I'll be back around five this evening...if you want my company of course." Again, nothing. "Try your best to relax and—yeah," John headed for the door, checking briefly over his shoulder to see if his friend had moved an inch to find he had not even turned his gaze away from the wall opposite him.

Sherlock only stirred once the door shut behind the doctor; he let out a long breath as if he had been encasing it in his throat, and he gingerly touched his forehead. John had not mentioned any real head trauma; he would have corrected his self-analysis if he had missed it. It was only a concussion if that and should have surely passed over three days. Sherlock swallowed and sat immobile in his bed, fingertips touching the material of the bandage, eyes closing as he waded through his mind, wondering if anything had gone amiss, if he had lost something.

**[SH]**

In a way, the sole attraction John had for Sarah came from the fact that she offered him a slice of normality. She offered him a stable relationship, one that wasn't constantly sprinting from one extreme to the next. They could spend an evening together without winding up chasing down some supposed villain, they could sit in a restaurant, and he could actually finish a meal. They could converse without reverting to criminal activity and he could talk about mild issues and subjects, nothing too harsh on the brain. With Sherlock, it felt like he was stepping into a pair of brand new shoes that sometimes pinched him and constricted him. Whilst with Sarah, it was like slipping into a pair of comfortable old shoes, and he didn't have to worry about it damaging or suffocating him.

In addition, she had no difficulty in expressing herself. That was one of the things he enjoyed most about her.

"How's your leg, John?" she said when they reached his flat, returning home from a pleasant lunch.

"It's alright," he replied. "The cane's a bit of a nuisance though. Good thing I didn't get rid of it. Sherlock said it would come in handy someday. Personally, I think he wanted to keep it just so he could drag stuff over to him when he couldn't be bothered to stand up and get it himself."

Sarah let out a small, sweet laugh and then her face straightened out into a serious manner. "How is he, John?"

John was not sure how to answer that because he honestly wasn't certain. Sherlock was—not himself; that was the best way to put it. Sure, he seemed unfazed by the fact Moriarty had gotten away and he seemed nonplussed at his own injuries, but it was when his skills in deduction came under threat when he suddenly seemed vulnerable. It was strange, imagining Sherlock unnerved. John only really ever seen him disconcerted when he had emerged clad with explosives and both of their lives were on the line. That was the only time. It had unsettled him.

"John?" Sarah probed as he had seemingly spaced out.

"Hm?" once he realised he had lapsed into silence, he smiled apologetically. "Yeah, he's um—he's fine."

John had spoken very little of Sherlock that day to Sarah; usually it was one of the hot topics and she listened intently. But today, all he'd had to share was that Sherlock had woken up and he did not provide any further detail on the matter. It felt odd to Sarah and she was perplexed to what could have possibly happened to stifle John on the matter. They headed up to the stairs, not talking very much, just John making small observations about trivial things like how he could never find his keys and how much of a bother the stairs were now he was using the cane again. The only time he said something of interest was when they reached the door. He froze and tensed up.

"What's wrong?" Sarah urged after a few moments passed with them just standing at the door.

John turned to her, eyes wide and face ashen. "T-The door...it's unlocked."

Sherlock had once warned him to not enter the flat if it had been unlocked and he was absent; it could possibly be one of his various enemies lying in wait to pounce and slay the only consulting detective. John's hand still grasped the door handle, clammy as he contemplated on what to do whilst listening fixedly to see if he could pick up any sound in the flat. It was quiet, not a single noise penetrating the air. He decided to go in and check, turning to Sarah and breathing, "Wait here" as low as possible. She nodded and crossed her arms the way she did whenever she was anxious or on edge. John inhaled deeply allowing the oxygen to broaden in his chest and then shakily exhaled it, the inner workings of a soldier strictly ordering him to remain calm and keep a clear head.

He turned the handle and burst in, hoping to catch anyone who may have snuck in off-guard. It didn't even cause the figure sitting on the armchair to flinch or even glimpse up from their newspaper. John blinked in confusion, his heart jittery and skipping numerous beats in his chest.

"Sherlock?" he gasped, a range of emotions running through him all at once. They varied from relieved, to aggravated, from pleased, to distress. "What are—what are you doing here? Y-you're supposed to be at the hospital!"

"Hospital? Dull," the dark haired man countered, giving the doctor a fleeting look. "No, I discharged myself."

"How? They wouldn't discharge you once you've just woken up from a coma," John scarcely restrained himself from shouting.

"Oh, don't worry. The CEO owes me a favour; I found out which one of her nurses was slipping patients poison a year back," Sherlock slanted his attention back over to the newspaper, which John knew he was most likely not even reading. "She didn't have a choice really but to let me go."

"Does Lestrade know?"

"Oh I'm sure he'll figure it out once he finds the room empty. Out of the two options, I think he'd find it more likely I left rather than died. Hello, Sarah. How was the lamb?"

Taking this as her que to timidly appear, Sarah entered the room and offered a languid smile that was not reciprocated. "It was—good thanks, how did you—"

"And John how was the steak?" Sherlock interrupted.

John wasn't sure how to reply. Lie to spare his flatmate his feelings or tell the truth to remain—was the term loyal? Would that act be considered loyal? Either way, he elected the latter hesitantly. "Um, I had the lamb too, Sherlock."

Sherlock visibly stiffened. To Sarah, this meant nothing. It was a mystery to her how he'd even figured out what she had had for lunch, so getting one tiny detail wrong didn't appear to be a great deal. Still, John understood and cleared his throat awkwardly. He had only seen Sherlock make two mistakes on insignificant observations; the first was when he was with his older brother and had missed out the details that would have informed him that John had slept on the sofa; the second was after he had woken up that morning. This was the third now. The first occasion, Sherlock had been blatantly intimidated and stressed by Mycroft's presence so that wasn't really of his own fault. This time, it was. John did not think it meant anything serious. The man had just been involved in an explosion for crying out loud. He was only human after all, as Lestrade had said. No, John wasn't worried about Sherlock's deducing abilities. They were sure to regulate in no time. No, it was _**how **_Sherlock was going to handle all of this. He loathed feeling vulnerable, and the whole being corrected thing was not only humiliating for him but also daunting.

"Well, um John thanks for the lovely evening," Sarah spoke abruptly, eyes flicking from the doctor to the consulting detective. "I will call you later, okay?"

On any other occasion, John would have insisted she stayed and demanded that Sherlock behaved himself and acted with a bit more politeness. However, this time, he merely nodded and limped over to her, pressing his lips softly to her cheekbone.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I'm really sorry, Sarah—"

"Don't be," she adjusted her handbag, her cheeks burning a faint pink. "Just look at it this way; you owe me." Delivering a chaste surprising kiss upon his mouth, she serenely addressed Sherlock. "Hope you feel better soon." This final sentence earned a groan and Sherlock abandoned his newspaper with an overdramatic purposeful loud rustle and went over to the window, glowering bitterly out of it.

Another reason John enjoyed her company; Sarah seemed resistant to his flatmate's bizarre and otherwise obnoxious behaviour. She didn't get upset or encourage John to challenge him; she just seemed to strip it of its hard exterior and see the insecurity there that most people failed to notice when it came to Sherlock.

Meeting John's gaze again, she smiled and gave a slight wave of her hand prior to turning around and heading out the door, shutting it behind her. Mutely grateful, John tried to mentally prepare himself for what was bound to come now.

"How does it feel to be attached, John, it must be so enthralling," Sherlock remarked snidely after a delay of speaking. "It's like—growing fond of a wart isn't it really?"

John raised an eyebrow, batting down the waves of anger that threatened to rear their ugly heads. "I wouldn't quite call it that, no."

"Love is overrated, I'm afraid," Sherlock continued as if he had not heard. "Just like sand."

"...Sand?"

"Yes, just a bunch of little rocks yet people travel around the globe just to sit in it."

"So—my feelings for Sarah are just like sand?"

Sherlock spun around at that, eyes wide and hands pressed neatly together, one in a cast the other not. It was the one thing along with the bandage around his head that reminded John that this man was, in fact, quite injured.

"Oh I see, so you—you _**love**_ Sarah?"

John involuntarily flinched. "What? No! I—I don't love her, Sherlock, no. We've only been dating for a few months..."

"Ah but you see, you likened your feelings for Sarah to that of sand, which I previously likened to love." Sherlock was smirking, his pale eyes glittering. "Oh, John, you poor sod."

John curled his fingers into his palms into a fist, painfully aware of the bright colour that had now claimed ownership of his face. "I'm not talking to you about my love life, Sherlock. I'm talking to you about _**you**_. Why did you leave the hospital? You shouldn't even be standing right now let alone at home!"

"Like I'm going to be doing anything different from what I'd be doing in that prison," Sherlock snapped, giving the window his attention once more. "I'm just lying around waiting for my bones to go back into place."

"But what if you need urgent attention?"

"I have a perfectly capable doctor living with me, don't I?" Sherlock had beckoned him eagerly into this tidy trap and John was now kicking himself for being led so easily into it.

"Perhaps, but at the hospital you will be kept out of trouble," John tried to regain some footing in the debate. "You won't be tempted to go running after Moriarty."

"I told you, John, I'm giving myself a week," Sherlock reminded him. "A week to retire and allow my mind and body to mend. I can't risk making idiotic mistakes when it comes to this man. No, he's earned my full attention and my best game, as it has been once called."

John threw his hands up into the air in defeat and resigned into his armchair. Sherlock, as he did whenever he got his own way, allowed a small grin break across his face. Unknown to him, it was noticed by his doctor, who just rolled his eyes and feigned ignorance, switching on the television set.

**[SH]**

Around eight o'clock that night, John Watson's phone vibrated angrily in his jacket pocket and when he opened up the new message, he read:

**I assume my little brother has persuaded you to let him have his way...again.**

**Just keep an eye on him and don't give in so easily. **

**I trust your skill as a doctor to make sure nothing else goes wrong.**

**If he gets worse, drag him to the hospital kicking and screaming, or even give me a call if you need a firmer hand**

**MH**

John reread it a few times over, his thumb ghosting over the buttons as he considered sending one back in reply. In the end, he decided against it and pocketed his phone again, light heartedly telling himself he would reply later. Sherlock had performed reasonably normal since he had been allowed to have his own way. He was distant and cast his glazed eyes on the television screen, and even had some dinner that Mrs Hudson had cooked for us, as a 'one time only deal' as she's 'not our housekeeper'. John was silently confident that Sherlock would be back to abnormal self soon and started to look on the coming week with a positive attitude.

**[SH]**

Sherlock had been sitting there all night trying to distract himself to no avail. He could not kill the solid lump sitting idly in his throat, refusing to shift so it was difficult to swallow or even speak. It served as a constant reminder that he was anxious and pathetic. He truly was.

Before, when he would feel this way, he would return to his flat utterly alone, left to his thoughts, and he could even indulge in a helping of cocaine to help loosen his bunched up muscles. That was not the case anymore. John was here and, to make it worse, the doctor's opinion of him mattered a great deal to him. Sherlock felt naked and stripped of all superiority; he was just like any normal human being right now and it gnawed at him, turning his brain to mush.

Moments like these, he wanted nothing more than to feel high and loose. As he sat there, listening to a piercing screech of a woman on the television belonging to one of those television soaps, Sherlock felt the itch. It dragged itself daintily over his very core in an almost taunting manner that could be likened to that of a seductive whisper in one's ear, the deadly kiss to that sensitive skin of the throat. It offered itself to him, offered him ways out of how he was feeling, techniques to prevent John, Lestrade and his damned brother from finding out. And it said that one thing that had caused him to cave in the past continuously: _**just this once**_. Once wouldn't hurt anybody; it would not damage him, it would not get him addicted again. However, like many others who are susceptible to addictions and obsessions, it would never just be the once.

At this point, his muscles were so tight under his skin that his hands had actually started to tremble.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he rather choked out, his voice thick with suppressed exclamations of chagrin. He tentatively got to his feet, resting a hand against his abused ribcage. John rose also yet he was not sure why. He felt as if he was a cane for Sherlock, there to steady him and take the painful weight away.

"It's only—half nine," John pointed out bemusedly, as he knew Sherlock would usually stay up until the early hours or even not go to sleep at all.

"Hm, you do cause me to question my faith in you at times, doctor," Sherlock said, not meeting his friend's gaze. "You said before I need to get lots of rest, and I intend to do that so I am—so I can be in my best form in a week's time." His posture was slightly bent as he struggled to stand up straight without causing massive discomfort. John put a hand on Sherlock's arm as he swayed.

"Do you need a hand?" he checked, brow furrowing.

"No of course not," Sherlock cringed away from the touch as if it burnt; in fact it made him even more aware of his weakened state. "I will see you in the morning."

"Give me a call if you need any pain killers or something," John offered as his flatmate made to walk away.

"Will do, doctor," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

His bedroom was the most neglected room in the house, as it hardly got any use. The bed itself was uncomfortable and old, but there was no point in him purchasing a new one. He usually had very little time for sleeping. It was strange being in his bedroom at this time of night, and he felt at a bit of a loss, standing there with no idea what to do with himself. Sherlock settled on sliding out of his trousers and unbuttoning his shirt, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye at the mirror that stood next to the door that was scarred with a large crack down the centre where he had punched it out of sheer frustration when he was suffering withdrawal symptoms. He had refused to get a new mirror just so it can stand there as a reminder to what he went through to quit the bastardly drugs in the first place. As he studied his reflection, though, he was not really paying heed to the break. He was glaring at the bruises and cuts littering his body, including a handful of scars that he considered as old friends.

The scars lay like photographs all over him, like the tokens of men he had engaged in a fight with, the reminder notes of the mistakes he had made, the autographs of various men and women he had brought to justice. That is what they all meant to him. On his inner forearm, where the veins revealed their vulnerability beautifully, there used to be puncture holes and, when it had reached its peak, bruising after punching in the syringe three times a day.

Sherlock stretched out his left arm, the blue veins breathing peacefully under the lighter shade of skin. He felt a chilly blanket of perspiration rest upon his forehead and his entire body started to quake. He fought to regain the memories of those despairing nights where he would writhe in absolute agony after a day without the drugs flowing through his system. Those vicious words that lashed out like whips when those who cared sat beside him trying their best to be there for him, those looks of mistrust lurking in people's eyes as they studied him asking over and over: "Are you using again?" and not believing him, turning his flat inside out just to ensure he was telling the truth. That was absolute misery.

"If I find out you're using again, Sherlock," he recalled Mycroft shouting. "I will never be able to forgive you..."

"I don't care if you never do," Sherlock had yelled back.

"You do care," Mycroft had said. The amount of conviction in his tone was so immense that Sherlock had not dared to dispute it.

The sweat lingered on his body sending violent tremors through his being, but he felt calmer now. He watched his reflection for a couple more minutes, vaguely listening to the sound of John walking around in the living room on the phone to Sarah. John was apologising, and arranging to meet up the following day for a romantic dinner. He mentioned that Sherlock was a grown man and did not need someone to be there all the time. Sherlock felt like interjecting, like telling him that he did in fact need him there all the time because he feared he would cave into his cravings otherwise. That confession was assassinated immediately and began to decay in his mouth.

**TBC**


	3. Two: Something Made His Eyes Go Cold

_**Please keep reviewing; thank you for reading and letting me know what you think. I request that, whilst reading this chapter you listen to the acoustic version of the song 'Haunted' by Taylor Swift; I found it fits perfectly and helped me write. Thank you**_

_**~ Maisy-Shane **_

John had been spreading a generous amount of jam over his toast for breakfast when the door knocked. He was reluctant to answer it as there was a further two slices sitting in wait in the toaster that he had made in hopes of getting Sherlock to eat, and he knew how fussy his flatmate was. He would turn his nose up even if the crusts were a shade too dark. John hovered for a moment, listening out to see if Sherlock would get it, but he didn't honestly expect him to. The door was knocked again, harder, and more persistent this time.

Exhaling heavily, John set down his butter knife, briefly checked to see if the toast had popped up, and limped over into the living room, ensuring to shoot a dirty look in the direction of Sherlock as he lay down on the sofa facing the wall. John unlocked and pried open the door only to have it forcefully pushed open, nearly knocking him right over. Mycroft Holmes stormed in without even glimpsing over at John, his face livid. Sherlock did not react to the loud bang of the door hitting the wall, or the sound of the approaching footsteps. It was if he had blissfully turned the world on mute and was lavishing the rare silence.

"I've been calling you," Mycroft snapped when his younger sibling did not acknowledge him. "None stop actually."

John, after regaining some sense of balance, shut the door and tutted at the mark left on the wall, prior to walking over to stand by Mycroft, yet ensuring to keep a safe distance in case he suddenly exploded. The older Holmes brother's face was alarmingly red and a temple stood out on his brow; John had never seen him so furious. He could not even fathom what Sherlock had to have done to have brought out such a side of his usually so complacent and patient brother.

"You can't shut me out, Sherlock, no matter how much you want to," Mycroft pressed on, his tone dropping an octave lower. "You know what I want to ask you, so just give me a straight answer."

"You could easily get the answer without bursting into my flat, _**Mycroft**_," Sherlock spoke after a rather draining pause, returning the address with palpable acidity.

"I want to hear it from you," Mycroft said stiffly. "Tell me _**please**_. I know how you get when you haven't got a case on. You get tempted don't you? And I know you, little brother. You're not much of a fighter when it comes to fighting yourself."

John frowned, not quite catching onto what was happening in front of him. Mycroft wanted to know something, something he wanted to hear directly from Sherlock's lips so it had to be something personal. Moreover, it was something very important to him, so much so he was practically trembling with scarcely suppressed vehemence.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft began softly only to be interrupted.

"No, Mycroft, the answer you're looking for is no!" Sherlock clamoured, bolting up into a sitting position and swinging his legs over the side of the sofa so he was facing his brother. To John's surprise, Sherlock was not looking at Mycroft at all; he was looking at him instead.

A wall of silence dropped between the siblings with a dull thud. Sherlock still stared straight at John, pressing his lips together, hands clasped together between his knees. The skin underneath his eyes was a tint darker than the rest, and his mouth chapped, his cheekbones more prominent than the doctor had ever seen them. John felt the pale eyes bore into him, as if signing their signature over his very soul, and he struggled to break away, or even allow a few words to part from him.

Mycroft finally spoke. "I don't believe you I'm afraid, brother."

Sherlock still didn't look at him though a faint smile spread over his worn ashen face. "Well, it seems you wasted a trip then. If you find my response unreliable, you can pull whatever strings need pulling to find one you do trust, but I assure you, you will still get a big fat no."

Mycroft sighed. "I hope so," he murmured.

He turned his back on his brother, and crossed the living room to the door. He delayed next to John for a moment, leaning ever so slightly in to whisper: "Keep an eye on him". Without waiting for a reaction, Mycroft saw himself out, shutting the door harshly behind him.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat, wrapping an arm around his ribcage, tilting his head back to rest the crown of it against the cool wall. John shifted from foot to foot in disquiet, milling over the scene that he had just witnessed in his mind.

"What was all that about?" he asked gently, unable to drive the way his flatmate had looked at him out of his head.

"Nothing of your concern," Sherlock breathed, sealing his eyes shut and welcoming the blackness as he would an old friend. It was quiet behind the veils of his eyelids, like shutting all doors and windows on the world. Distantly, he added, "John..."

"Yeah?"

"My toast is burning."

Cursing under his breath, John went as fast as his leg would allow into the kitchen to find the toast he had made almost pitch black. He checked the packet to see if there was any bread left, to find it empty. Swearing loudly, he rolled the wrapper up into a ball and tossed it into the overflowing bin.

**[SH]**

**To: DI Lestrade**

**My brother may be using again. **

**MH**

**[SH]**

The week was almost out and John was starting to suspect that Sherlock was on the mend—well, mended enough to get back to work. There were a couple of cases that Lestrade had kept them informed on, though Sherlock didn't appear all too interested. It was clear to everyone, that only one that could possibly link to Moriarty would stir him from this withdrawn state of mind that he had gotten himself into. John discussed this with Lestrade when Sherlock had been taking his eighth nap of the day, and had received a statement that went along the lines of:

"But he has to let it go; Moriarty's gone."

Lestrade had been right when he had said that even though he had known Sherlock for five years he didn't know him more than John did because John knew for a fact that Sherlock would not let this go even if his health and sanity depended on it.

"What about this one," John said, holding up a piece of paper. "A woman found dead in the boot of a taxi—"

"She was having an affair and threatened to break it off," Sherlock's drone of a voice cut him off. "Dull."

"No, no it isn't dull, Sherlock," John said exasperatedly. "You're just rejecting every case so you can focus on finding out where Moriarty is."

Sherlock smirked. "Am I that predictable? Am I now as painfully obvious and readable as the rest of the human population?"

"You know you'd never be like the rest of the human population," John rubbed his tired eyes, hesitantly setting the paper aside. "Even if you are a little predictable from time to time."

He rifled through the stack that had been permitted to pile up over the week; it seemed the instant Sherlock was unfit to work the world started to fall apart. John had narrowed them down a great amount, as they had to have two requirements: they had to involve at least one death, and they had to be located in London. Otherwise, Sherlock would not even offer throwaway theories that were very likely to not even be true.

"At least take on a case to warm you up," John offered. "As you said, you want to be on your best game if you come face to face with Moriarty again."

"When, John," Sherlock said, throwing his handful of papers up into the air so they fell around him like oversized confetti. "_**When **_I come face to face with Moriarty again."

John groaned, watching with a dismayed expression as sheet after sheet scattered themselves all around the floor. "You're cleaning that up, you know," he ensured to make clear.

"If you know me as well as you claim to do, you know if you leave it to me to clean it up, it will never be done, and the flat will forever be a mess." Sherlock tilted his head to the side, grinning widely. It was one of those rare occasions where the emotions actually touched his eyes these days and seemed genuine, and even though it was at his expense it pleased John immensely.

Come six o'clock that evening, John had tidied up the mess the consulting detective had made and was dressed in his nicest shirt and trousers, reeking of his favourite aftershave that Sherlock also covertly appreciated. Sherlock had not moved an inch from their afternoon of going through pointless cases, and watched as the doctor adjusted his tie.

"You're welcome to come along too, you know," John said, noticing Sherlock observing him from his position on the sofa. "Sarah doesn't mind if you want to come out for dinner."

"No thanks," Sherlock cast his eyes down to his hands that rested over his ribs, somewhat soothing the pulsing ache that thrived there.

"It'll be nice for you to get out," John attempted to persuade him, subconsciously picking up objects from the floor and putting them away. "You haven't left the flat since you came back from the hospital."

"I will tomorrow," Sherlock said unconvincingly. He hissed with pain when he touched a particularly sore corner of his torso, drawing the attention of his friend.

"You alright?"

"Of course."

John was not at all reassured and went to Sherlock's side, sitting beside his long thin legs. He reached out and tenderly pried away his hands, replacing them with his own. Sherlock was severely tense and when John rested his palm against the skin, he felt the bones shift a little. It was bizarre for John as this was the first time he was aware of his friend's foundation, in other words, the fragility of his mortal body. It was as though he had convinced himself that Sherlock was unbreakable, and to feel it there beneath his hand oddly surprised him.

He lessened the pressure of his touch when he noticed the grimace on the other man's face and started tenuously stroking the afflicted area with total care and consideration. John felt the heat flood to his cheeks yet ignored it. He focused all of his attention on brushing his fingertips delicately over the clothed skin. Without thinking, with his other hand he unbuttoned the shirt and shifted the material aside, exposing the purpled flesh. When he made contact once more, Sherlock let out a whimper and John snapped his hand away, blood draining from his face though still feeling remarkably hot.

"I am so,_** so**_ sorry," John gushed. "D-did I hurt you?" he went to stand when Sherlock's hand reached out and held his arm.

"No, you didn't hurt me," Sherlock admitted tacitly. "It's just—" he chewed his bottom lip. "Your hands are just really cold."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, just searching each other's eyes and feeling their hearts thumping boldly in their chests. Neither of them knew what to say. John felt embarrassed for how he had acted, touching his flatmate in such a shameless way as if it was a natural reaction to him being in pain. He felt perverted now, and feverishly worried that Sherlock was thinking the same thing. Sherlock was not; he was feeling overexposed, and he sheepishly did up his buttons to aid such a notion though it did nothing to console him. John stood up and, this time, wasn't stopped as he stumbled over to collect his coat from its hook.

"I should be back around ten," John said, bidding to pretend nothing had occurred at all.

"Alright," Sherlock replied, rolling over onto his side to face the back of the sofa. "I'll be here so."

John glimpsed over his shoulder, an icy stab in his abdomen when he saw his friend had turned his back to him. "There's some pain medication in my room if it gets any worse—and—give me a call if you need anything."

Sherlock did not outwardly react until he heard the door shut. He looked over his shoulder as if to certify John was no longer standing there; when he saw that he was alone, he resumed his position and curled up, disregarding the acute hurt located in his chest that had nothing to do with any broken bones...

**[SH]**

John found it difficult to stick to the present, found it near impossible to keep up with the brisk pace of conversation that he was supposedly engaged in with Sarah though he could not, for the life of him, tell exactly what that was. She spoke animatedly, winding her slender arm with his, pulling him closer as they strode side-by-side through the streets of London. He was not even entirely certain of what direction they were going; he just allowed his legs to carry him whatever way they willed him to go. They passed a handful of restaurants, some of which Sarah seemed particularly eager to look into, but he did not halt even for a moment. He pressed on, nodding and supplying her with brisk "Yes" and "No" answers, throwing in the odd dry laugh every now and again.

"Let's have dinner here," Sarah abruptly decided, stopping them both outside a restaurant.

John's eyes widened as he recognised it, turning his head to see the familiar street behind him. Clearing his abnormally constricted throat, he provided a limp smile.

"Oh come on you don't want to eat here," he tried.

"Actually I do," Sarah retorted in a rather harsh manner. "We've been walking around for about half an hour. I'm starving, and I've heard nothing but good things about this place."

John deflated, and flushed under her assertive delivery. Without faltering, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, not waiting for him to follow her. He trailed behind her reluctantly as they were shown to a table, one that was, thankfully, not the same one as last time. John could not fool his mind into believing this was not the same place when the large bearded man enthusiastically greeted him.

"Oh! It's you," Angelo cried, grasping the doctor's hands and shaking them thoroughly. "You were here before, right? With Sherlock Holmes?" John unwillingly nodded, earning an exclamation of delight from the owner. "You will eat for free of course, I owe that man so much, you know?"

"Thank you," John accepted the menu that was thrust excitedly into his hand and peeled it open, grazing his eyes over the contents listlessly.

"Wow, good thing we chose to eat here," Sarah giggled, tucking some of her hair behind her ear as she bowed her head, debating with herself aloud about what to choose.

John could not help but think about how Sherlock had not even opened his menu when they came here, setting it down, and turning his attention to the window. John glimpsed out of it now, watching 22 Northumberland Street with eyes misty with reminiscence.

_What do real people have then in their—real lives? _

_Friends—you know people they know, people they—like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends. _

John pondered over that, over which category he would come under now when it came to Sherlock's 'real life'. Would he come under friend? Someone he liked? Boyfriend? No definitely not. John was with Sarah, and Sherlock considered himself married to his work, and didn't exactly specify that he was in fact interested in men.

_Girlfriend? No, not really my area. _

That was not quite him coming out to John, not in the least. Sherlock expressed interest in no one, he read people too easily. John could not picture him working through jealousy, or putting in the effort to keep date schedules or even allowing himself to be intimate with someone else. Sherlock was not an intimate person as far as John knew; he had embraced Mrs Hudson on more than one occasion though that seemed to be the limit for him. He could not picture Sherlock self-consciously leaning in to brush his lips with anyone else of either gender. John even questioned the notion on whether the consulting detective had even kissed anyone before, let alone anything else.

"What are you having, John?" Sarah's voice cut through his trail of thought, and she sounded agitated as if she had repeated the question for the third time.

"Oh, uh a—" he smiled apologetically at both her and their waiter, Billy, who was holding his pad with the pen poised tiredly over it. "I'm sorry I don't know what to have yet."

"Let me know when you've decided," Billy said, turning his back on their table and attending to another.

"What is wrong with you tonight, John?" she demanded lowly so not to attract any unsought attention. "You've hardly spoken and you seem—distant. Is there something the matter?"

John contemplated pouring out his heart's delicate contents out onto the table between them to bask under the flickering, dim light of the candle Angelo had set in the centre to make it 'more romantic'. He would tell her that he was confused...confused about his flatmate. However, that alone perplexed John further; what was there to be confused about? Sherlock was his friend. His dearest, and closest in fact, and he sincerely cared about his welfare. That was the motivation behind what had happened earlier. Nothing more and certainly nothing less. Therefore, he selected the other option to just make a flimsy excuse and to consider the matter settled, left to enjoy the remainder of the night. Just as he parted his lips to falsely confess that he had just been stressed or something along those lines, his phone buzzed dully in his jacket pocket.

Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair, gnawing the inside of her cheek as she glowered over at her date. John felt bad for taking out his phone at such an inopportune time, though he justified himself by saying it could be important. He peeked at the screen to see it was from Sherlock.

**Come back to the flat**

**SH**

"Who's that?" Sarah implored, drumming her fingers.

"Sherlock," John numbly answered, stuffing the phone back into his jacket pocket. "He needs me." He went to stand when she reached across the table, touching his hand.

"What about me, John?" Sarah pleaded, noticing some of the other diners were watching curiously. "I need you. Do I matter to you at all?"

John studied her expression attentively and enveloped her hand with his own. "Of course you do," he whispered. "You honestly do. But—" he hastily reanalysed what he was about to say to ensure it would avert from hurting her feelings any further. "He needs me right now, Sarah. Like—_**really **_needs me. I promise you...once he gets over this entire Moriarty thing, I will be there for you more."

"How long will that be?"

John swallowed hard. "I don't know, Sarah..."

Sarah nodded as if allowing what was just said to sink in, and then she slipped her hand away from his, picking up her handbag and scraping back her chair. She paused right before passing him entirely, touching his shoulder with her fingertips. John reached back and held them there for a moment longer.

"I'm not going to wait around for you to have time for me," Sarah said breathily. "I deserve better. Goodbye, John."

Then she was gone...and it washed over John like acid, burning the notion that he had made a mistake into his very core...

**[SH]**

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John called out, almost running up the stairs if it were not for the confounded cane dragging like a broken limb behind him.

He pushed open the door and staggered inside, chest rising and falling heavily as he had practically sprinted over from the restaurant back to Baker Street, the fear that something bad had happened driving him, as well as a tiny fragment of hope for something unknown that he failed to address. John blinked in confusion as his gaze landed on the suitcase standing upright in the middle of the living room. The consulting detective was nowhere in sight.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, and this is when his flatmate appeared from the kitchen, carrying a second suitcase in his good hand, jaw clenched as he set it down next to the first. "W-what's going on?" John stuttered.

"John—I want you to move out," Sherlock said keeping his pale eyes trained to the floor as he drifted over towards the window.

It was like a bullet crawling agonizingly through him, those words were. The breath hitched in John's throat and he stared dumbly at his friend—well, whom he thought was his friend.

"I'm sorry what?" John choked out. "You—you want me to move out? Am I hearing you right?"

"Yes, you are, John," Sherlock confirmed, bringing his long fingered hands together, now looking outside. "I want you to leave Baker Street. The sooner the better to be truthfully honest."

"Why, Sherlock?" he sounded pathetic but paid no heed to it, taking a rigid step closer, searching desperately for some sign of humanity in the painfully straight features of the other. "I—we're—we're friends? We're colleagues. You said—you said once you were nothing...NOTHING without your blogger, you said that once didn't you?"

"Being a doctor, John, you know very well things change," Sherlock retorted disinterestedly. "Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Take this whichever way suits you."

"I want a reason. A real reason that doesn't just—beat around the bloody bush!"

"I could give you a handful of reasons to why we are not suited to live with one another," Sherlock's eyes fleetingly greeted John's. "Do you wish for me to list them alphabetically or in order of importance?"

"Importance...tell me the most important."

"Fine. John, frankly you have become a—a weakness to me."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "I'm a weakness to you? I don't see how—"

"Are you truly that dense, doctor?" Sherlock snapped, stepping away from the window to storm up to the other until they were mere inches apart. He looked down at him, and John noticed that he was shaking. "Moriarty. That incident at the pool. _**You **_were used _**against **_me! I cannot afford to have a weakness, John. I just can't."

"I can take care of myself," John said flatly. "I don't need you to keep an eye on me; I don't need you to blow up a bloody swimming pool just to make sure I'm okay. I am a soldier!"

"Exactly! You were sent away from Afghanistan to leave the war behind! Don't go looking for a new one to one, John. It was wrong of me to make you anymore than a flatmate. You were only there to help me pay the rent, not help me become just as attached and feeble as the rest of you." He suddenly blushed and walked away, stopping at the fireplace.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John blurted out in frustration. "I thought I had figured you out...that I could read you well enough to know that—" he drifted off. A part of him wanted to argue, to put up a great fight, and to refuse to leave. Another just wanted to get out of there as he felt he would split in half with the amount of anger that was sizzling inside of him. "To know that you...needed me..." the last part came out in nought but a whisper, yet Sherlock felt as though it had been screamed at the top of his lungs.

"I don't need anyone," Sherlock said, twisting back round to take in the sight of his friend. "I cannot afford to have a weakness, John. You will only be used against me time and time again, and it will do neither of us any good. It is for the best for the both of us. The only way to remain untouchable is to have no heart, to have no impairment."

_I will burn the __**heart**__ out of you._

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_But we both know that's not quite true. _

"Are you saying that not only do you want me to move out of the flat," John said hoarsely, reigning in his emotions as best as he possibly could. "You want me to move out of your life too?"

Sherlock did not immediately respond. John strived to read his features, to find some trace of something, anything, there in those eyes but they were ice cold.

"Yes."

_Alright. __**Are **__you alright? _

The urgency in his voice right then as he bent down before him, was so naked and clear to John. The way he had practically torn the explosives off him, working frantically, and not paying any heed to John's responses. Of course, John had been in shock but that still came through to him and as his knees had given way, it had struck him that he did matter to the usually apathetic consulting detective. The man who numerous people had warned him to stay away from. The man who was rumoured to actually not have a heart. The junkie, the sociopath, the critical, the ignorant, the unemotional, the calculating, the, at times, sinister...finally showed a side of himself that no one else ever knew. He had shown it to John. Now he was disappearing again under all of those vicious labels.

Sherlock just walked away; not another word was shared, not a handshake or anything. He just left and went to his bedroom, leaving John aghast and dazed in the living room on his own. He was to stand there for a few minutes more, and then he numbly collected his suitcases, casting one final glimpse at the flat as he stood at the threshold of the door. Digging into his trouser pocket, he brought forth his set of keys. Cradling them in his palm, he ground his teeth together and then dropped them with a clatter on the floor, slamming the door shut behind him.

He was gone.

Sherlock's eyes closed when he heard the bang, and buried his face into his hands.

**[SH]**

Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been crying. When she saw John on her doorstep, Sarah made to close it when she noticed the suitcases in his hands and the embarrassed look on his face. Despite how she felt towards him at that current moment, she could not stand to leave him without a place to go. She stepped aside silently allowing him a space to walk past her. He smiled gratefully and stepped inside.

**[SH]**

**To: Raz **

**Fairy dust**

**SH**

That was the code in case it was intercepted by someone, in particular his infuriating brother. Sherlock paced back and forth fervently as soon as the text was sent, his clammy hands clasped together. It took around twenty minutes for the door to knock, and he bolted over in the midst of the first tap. He swung it open.

A hooded man stood there. He did not say a word, just held out a palm.

Sherlock slapped the seven notes into his hand, and stretched out his own.

After checking the money, the man brought forth a bag filled with white powder and settled it into the detective's hand.

As soon as it left him, the guy took off without a word and Sherlock shut the door.

**TBC **


	4. Three: The Secrets He Keeps

_**Thank you for reading. Continue to review, show interest and enjoy **_

_**~ Maisy-Shane **_

It had been just under a month since John Watson had left 221b Baker Street.

Lestrade could hardly believe it, because how, in such a short space of time, could Sherlock deteriorate so vastly? The consulting detective, despite everyone's protests, started work exactly a week after waking up in hospital, and he had not stopped since. He took on anything and everything that he possibly could. He lingered around the station like a shadow, sometimes just sitting silently in the corner with his hands set together in a steeple, staring through the people working around him. At first, the other officers objected to his presence, though it did not take them long to adjust once they learned of his new reserved behaviour. More often than not, they forgot he was there.

A majority of those who knew him welcomed this drastic change in personality with open arms, Anderson and Donovan in particular. Lestrade suspected it was due to their affair no longer being pointed out whenever she would come to work wearing the same clothes the next day or sporting Anderson's aftershave. Sherlock did not even comment on things like that anymore. He commented on barely anything these days. It seemed the only one who actually cared was Lestrade, and he knew that once the novelty wore off, the others, even Anderson, would soon feel the same as him.

It was not just the alteration in manner either; it was in his physical appearance. Sherlock had lost weight; he was lean man anyway and it was not thought that he could get any thinner, yet they were proved wrong. Lestrade estimated that he had lost around six pounds, and a man like Sherlock could do with gaining that rather than losing it. In addition, Sherlock's complexion had died down to an almost translucent semblance, and his hands were continuously shaking, knee bouncing whenever he sat down, which was more than half of the time. He looked ill, though Lestrade suspected no bug or sickness was the culprit.

"You've lost weight you know," Lestrade remarked offhandedly, sliding into the seat opposite the detective in the canteen one midday.

"Have I?" Sherlock replied indifferently.

"Yeah, you have," Lestrade pushed the sandwich he had just purchased towards him. When Sherlock went to oppose the offer, the detective inspector brought forth a second, homemade one from his bag. "Eat. No complaints."

Lestrade tucked into his lunch, eyeing the other as he did so, refusing to divert his attention until Sherlock, with visible reluctance, did the same, tearing off some of the crust and bringing it to his mouth. They ate in quiet for a while, the noise, and clatter of the others around them filling in the silence for them. Dusting his hands of crumbs once he had finished, Lestrade glanced up in relief to find the sandwich he had given Sherlock devoured also.

"There you go," he said encouragingly. "Wasn't that difficult was it?" the other did not react yet he did not expect him to. Instead, he pressed on. "How have you been, Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled heavily, leaning back in his seat with his eyes gazing off elsewhere. "I've been just fine," he answered coolly.

"Come off it," Lestrade urged. "I'm here for you, you know that, yeah?"

Sherlock turned to him and, with what seemed to be somewhat of a sneer crossing his face, said; "You're going to ask if I've been using again, aren't you?"

Lestrade did not attempt to deny it, there was no point but he wasn't about to go all shy either. He wanted to know. "Have you—"

"No," Sherlock had cut in too quickly, and it drew suspicion from the detective inspector.

"You are, aren't you?"

"See, this is what I don't understand about you people," Sherlock spat. "You ask me and when I tell you, you don't believe me."

"Yeah, I wonder why," Lestrade retorted, turning red at the tips of his ears. "You lied about your old...habit in the past, remember? It was only because we showed up unexpected and caught you, high as a kite, in your flat. Otherwise, yeah we would have taken your word and you would be in the gutter right now or worse." His voice was rising gradually as he went on. "Now you tell me if you are using drugs again or so help me—"

"If you don't trust me, then why do you bother asking?" Sherlock demanded. "You're as bad as Mycroft. Always contradicting yourself. If you don't take my word for it, then why do you bother?"

"Because I want you to admit it," Lestrade said easily without thinking.

The two men glowered at each other for some time, eyes boring into each other and neither of them refused to back down. After around five minutes, Sherlock scraped back his chair and stood up.

Looking down at Lestrade, he said, "You will be waiting a very long time for me to admit that I'm using again, because I'm not."

"I bloody hope so," Lestrade confirmed.

Sherlock took that as his que to leave, and did so accordingly. Knowing the other was watching him, he tossed the sandwich he had supposedly eaten into the bin and exited the canteen without looking back. Lestrade clapped his hands over his face, groaning loudly, and then he too got up and left.

**[SH]**

It was as if a second body was sat within his own. Throughout the day, the second was all tense and sitting upright, threatening to break his skin, stretching him to his absolute limits. However, the instant the piston of the syringe was pushed down, it relaxed and lay down, settling into his shape. He could finally breathe evenly without fearing he would burst open, and his eyes rolled back into his skull, the tingling sensation rich and gorgeous in the tips of his fingers and toes. His mouth open, he sucked in the oxygen that had never tasted so fresh and clean to his lungs before, and his mind was organized for him. It was all tucked and stacked away neatly. He did not have to fumble around through all of the insignificant things; the one matter of importance was right there waiting for him patiently as if under a spotlight.

Sherlock could not compare those collective feelings to anything else in his constricted world, and at moments like those, he wondered why he didn't just lay there all day in this beautiful haze.

Soon, the euphoria began to ebb away and he clung desperately onto it only to have it slither through his fingers and disappear to a place unknown and unreachable, without assistance of course. Sherlock's eyelids ascended like a curtain, and the dull performance started all over again, the ugly grimy faces of its audience watching him expectantly. Sherlock could not help but let a slight groan drift from his mouth, clapping a hand over his eyes.

And this was when he felt revolting, as if adopting a second layer of skin made entirely of dirt. He felt sick, bitterly scolding himself for succumbing again. He swore to himself he never would again. That was a lie. Sherlock made that promise every time he used. Only once in his life did he actually go through with it, and that was because he had Lestrade and his brother snapping at his heels, dissecting his entire home every night to ensure there was nothing hidden in the backs of the cupboards, inside of the cushions, under the skull or the loose floorboard in his room.

He heaved himself up into a sitting position, hands still covering his face. His head felt as though it was being flooded, the ecstasy that his brain had hungrily absorbed earlier being leaked out, thick and disgusting, maintaining not one trace of its once delicious potential. Sherlock sat on the sofa like that for a while, when he heard thuds. His head shot up, blinking blearily in the darkness of his flat as he intently listened. They were coming from—

"John?" Sherlock's gravelly voice sprang out as he unsteadily stood, swaying as he made his way through the kitchen, trusting his feet to guide him to the right place.

Sherlock staggered up the stairs and to the second bedroom that had found itself recently neglected and bare. He shoved open the door, flinching at the loud bang it made when it connected harshly with the wall.

"John?" Sherlock shouted to the empty room, staring distressfully at it.

Slumping against the door, Sherlock clenched his jaw and rested his temple against the cool, unsympathetic frame. His heart, stuffed with emotions heavier than a trillion stones, sank in his chest. His eyes swam but he roughly dismissed them with a swipe of his hand, rejecting their very existence as he was and always will be, a man made of stone with no chinks or weaknesses.

Despite his attempts, there was no denying, he was starting to crumble.

**[SH]**

It was rerun of an old Connie Prince episode, and when her round, bright face came on the screen, John's thumb lingered over the remote control button for a second, his eyes fastened to the screen as she talked animatedly about something he was not tuned in to. Sarah straightened up at his side, a sign that she was taking an interest in it. John cleared his throat awkwardly before changing channel, earning an exclamation of disapproval from her.

"John! How come you flicked over?" she asked, hand extended out at the screen that now showed an old man standing in front of a wind ruffled field. "I loved that show."

John blushed. "Urm, not really my cup of tea."

Sarah pouted and lowered her hand. "Fine, but I'm not watching this tonight. It's worse than watching white paint dry on a white wall."

John eventually settled on a film that was being shown on channel four, and excused himself to go to the bathroom. As he scrubbed his hands under the running tap, his thoughts drifted over to the consulting detective. He sourly wondered how he was doing, if he was doing just fine living by himself. John was convinced Sherlock didn't give a toss that he was no longer living there, and was probably enjoying being alone. That was how Sherlock liked it best. Secluded and focused on nothing but his thoughts and on the cases that he prospered from. That was all he cared about really. The cases and his — his damned cleverness. He did not care about anything or anyone else. Not his brother, or his clients. Not the people dying around him or the people who put up with him. Not those who admired him, and definitely not John.

The remainder of John's night consisted of _Four Weddings and a Funeral_, pulling Sarah closer as she cried at the scene where the character played by John Hannah read a eulogy at the funeral of his same sex lover, and then shuffling off to the lie low at eleven, his eyes aching. It was a sure warning that tomorrow he would wake to a full-blown migraine. Sarah offered a space at the end of her bed, an offer he politely turned down. He would have felt highly uncomfortable sleeping there, as he had not quite forgiven himself for how he had treated her that night. She, on the other hand, had cast it all into a past that she no longer cared for and acted as if it had never happened.

Come three o'clock that morning, John was still wide-awake. Most nights were the same; save the odd few where he would just pass out the instant his head hit the pillow. Unfortunately, that night was one of those occasions.

Whenever he would try to sleep, he would feel sudden jolting pangs of guilt split him in half and he would start awake. John was not sure what he had to be guilty about. Nothing was what he sharply told himself, yet he was not convinced. He kept thinking he should have tried; he should have refused to leave and made Sherlock change his mind. John liked Sarah, he liked her a whole lot but he missed living at 221b Baker Street. In a way, it had some sort of sentiment to him, in a bizarre way. It was where he had found the desire to live again. Before that, he was just hollow waiting for something to return to him, to come find him. In a sense it did. Sherlock found him. Sherlock unintentionally saved his life.

That notion glued itself to John, and he found his eyes set wide open throughout the night. He did not get up until he heard the toilet flush, meaning Sarah was getting up for work. Once he heard the shower running, he went to the kitchen and made her breakfast without really thinking about it. She ate it gratefully, not once complaining if he burned anything or hadn't made it exactly the way she liked it, unlike a certain someone, and she kissed him on the cheek prior to heading out of the door.

John sat motionless at the table, a pulsing dull pain stirring in his leg. He touched it subconsciously, rubbing it in a soothing manner. It was hurting just as bad as it had been before, and he did not think it was down to where the bullet grazed him a month ago. It was worse than that. He decided to walk it off, starting to do the washing up when the door knocked. Shaking his hands free of excess water, he hobbled over and pried it open to see a warm familiar face standing at the other side.

"You alright there, John?" detective inspector Lestrade greeted, holding out a hand that John took courteously. "Can I come in?"

"Um yeah sure," John replied bewilderedly, stepping aside to allow the other man to stride on through. He was not dense, he was well aware of the purpose behind Lestrade's visit. It wasn't a leisurely one to catch up and exchange small talk; it was to discuss Sherlock and a wave of dread rolled directly over John.

"Cup of coffee?" John offered.

"Yeah that'd be great," Lestrade grinned wryly at him. "Four sugars if you don't mind, Doctor Watson."

They descended into silence as John set about preparing it until finally, the detective inspector spoke. "How've you been?"

John glanced up shortly. "Good thanks, yourself?" he never received an answer on that as Lestrade skipped it and dove straight to the point.

"Look, um—is there any possibility of you moving back to Baker Street?"

The doctor went still momentarily, and then went on as if nothing had been said until he finished making the coffee, handing it over to Lestrade without meeting his gaze.

"Not sure," John answered cautiously. "It all depends really."

"On what?"

"On Sherlock."

Lestrade gave a small nod and pursed his lips, brow furrowed. He took a swig of his coffee prior to speaking again. "He's a mess, John. He really is."

John was perplexed as to why this made him somewhat happy, and bowed his head as if to prevent the other man from seeing it. So Sherlock was not made entirely of stone. He wasn't just carrying on, pretending John never existed. He cared even if it was just a little.

"He needs you, even if he acts like he doesn't," Lestrade added. "Will you at least just talk to him?"

John mulled over this. "I don't know how to go about it to be perfectly honest," he admitted after a pause. "I mean, I can't just walk up to Baker Street and be like 'I'm moving back in now'."

"You don't have to do that really," Lestrade pointed out. "He's usually at the station now just sitting around like a lost kid. You can come back up with me if you like now and talk it over with him. I'm sure he'd love to see you."

John was greatly tempted, and he felt the urge to grab his coat and follow Lestrade out to the car. However, something held him back. He faltered, crossing his arms over his chest as the inspector drank more of his drink.

_You were sent away from Afghanistan to leave the war behind! Don't go looking for a new one to one, John. It was wrong of me to make you anymore than a flatmate. You were only there to help me pay the rent, not help me become just as attached and feeble as the rest of you._

"Maybe, I'd best do it another time," John said slowly.

Lestrade, seemingly sensing his wariness, stepped in. "John, please mate. You're the only one that can fix him right now."

"Well maybe I'm sick of that responsibility," John countered hotly. "I'm always the one who has to pick up the pieces, to apologise for how he acts, to stop him from self-destructing. He's not a kid anymore; he needs to learn how to look after himself."

"You know better than anyone he never will learn," Lestrade persisted. "When he _was_ taking care of himself, you know what he was doing? Putting all kinds of crap into his body and literally killing himself!"

"I can only do so much," John said. "I need to look after myself too, you know. I have other people that need me, and I have to put them first at least for a while." Sarah leapt instantly into his mind when he said that, the way she had left him at Angelo's when he said that Sherlock needed him.

Lestrade gave him a disappointed look and set down his mug with a sharp _clank_. "I'll see myself out then, doctor. Thanks for the coffee."

John feigned indifference, merely picking up the half-empty drink, pouring the remains into the sink, and rinsing it out under the tap. He glowered into space, teeth ground painfully together. He felt agitated more than anything; agitated that everyone expected so much of him. They all expected him to save the day, to magically transform Sherlock into a good, normal person. John wondered what had given them that idea, and considered himself rid of that job now.

**[SH]**

Lestrade was in a foul mood and it just got progressively worse as the day went on. His shift over, he made to head down to his car when he noticed Sherlock in the corner of his eye, sitting with his head resting against the table, arms used as a cushion, fast asleep. Lestrade contemplated just heading off out, John's words echoing in his head (_he's not a kid anymore; he needs to learn how to look after himself_) and made to leave but found he simply couldn't. Biting his bottom lip hard and cursing his morality, he approached the sleeping consulting detective apprehensively.

"Oi, Sherlock," he said gruffly, giving the man a gentle shake on the shoulder.

Sherlock bolted upright and, upon seeing whom it was, let out a yawn and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Morning," he responded tiredly.

"A few hours behind there, pal," Lestrade was caught between being amused and being concerned at how the other was acting. "It's nearly half nine at night."

Sherlock blinked vacantly, stretching his slender arms out in front of him. "Oh," was all he uttered.

"Do you want a ride back to your flat?" Lestrade suggested. "You don't look too good."

"I'm fine," Sherlock assured him unconvincingly. "I'm just catching up on some sleep I suppose. Not much is happening in London right now. Rather boring if you ask me."

"You sure? It's not a problem."

"I'm sure, _mother_," Sherlock smiled wanly up at him, ruffling his own dark curls. "I will be just fine. Look at it like this though; if anything bad happens it will give you something to do rather than go out for an elongated lunch hour. Visiting a secret lover, Lestrade?"

Lestrade's eyebrow twitched, unsure whether to state that John Watson was hardly a secret lover of any sort. He decided not to and just patted Sherlock's arm as lightly as possible as if to avoid breaking him.

"Take care of yourself old boy," he said lastly, and then left.

Sherlock sat there for a few more minutes, watching as the night shift officers and workers came in, filling in the empty chairs and answering calls, half-heartedly conversing with one another. He had been at the station since seven o'clock that morning, and his entire body ached in protest against staying docile for such an elongated amount of time. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock followed Lestrade's suit, leaving and going out into the street.

He should have hailed a taxi; he was too worn out to walk all the way back to Baker Street, but for some reason he didn't stop. He just walked in the direction he needed to go, hands tucked into his coat pockets, wind tearing through his hair and billowing out his clothing. Sherlock despised going back to the flat now. He already knew what he was going to do the instant he got back; he was going to text Raz, get some more drugs, and spend the rest of his night reclined in his armchair or better yet on the sofa, blocking out the reality that threatened to twist and break him.

He couldn't stand it anymore. It was miserable if anything, and not to mention lonely. Not so much the drug taking, but going back to an empty flat. He would never admit it to anyone, but now he could not stand being alone. It felt like there were insects scratching around in his skull, biting and irritating him until he used again. When he was by himself, it was at its worst. When he was at the station, he was distracted and prevented from taking anything in case someone saw or noticed, most likely Lestrade. Sherlock needed John back as well as wanted.

Sherlock went stock still in the midst of a street congested with irritable people, oblivious to the disgruntled mutters of those behind him and numb to the harsh knocks to the shoulder he received as they walked past him. For a second, he wondered if he was hallucinating, if he was experiencing the aftertaste of some drug he had subconsciously taken.

His nails biting into his palm, he stared in disbelief as he saw John Watson a yard or two before him, exiting a restaurant with Sarah at his side. She went up on her tiptoes and crushed her lips against his, and he smiled widely after they pulled apart, pressing his forehead against hers. Sherlock inhaled deeply through his mouth, watching as John left her side, one hand still clasped with hers as he stretched out his other arm, calling on a taxi that was coming down the road. The cab pulled over and John opened the door for Sarah to clamber inside.

Sherlock observed them together, analysing their body language with a critical and tormented eye. Things were good for them so it appeared; she had clearly fallen for the doctor as she focused her body towards him at all times and her eyes never left his face. John looked happier than Sherlock had seen him in a long time. He did not look stressed anymore; he looked well rested, and well fed, satisfied was the word he decided on. He was using the cane again, and his limp looked bad but Sherlock was not really focused on that. He could not distract himself from that smile on John's face. Genuine as it brought out those crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

Unable to watch any longer, Sherlock hung his head and rushed on forward past John. He felt like the point of a knife was slowly immersing into his skin as he passed his old friend, forcing himself not to make a cutting remark and to keep as much distance as possible so not to draw attention to his presence. He stormed onwards, not daring to glance back.

John turned his head slightly ajar as a cool wind caressed the nape of his neck and his heart spluttered, blood swimming chillily in his veins. His view was obscured by the vast amount of people bustling on home or out onto the town for nightly activities, and despite his efforts to look around and over them, the retreating back that had caused such a reaction was gone.

"You alright, John?" Sarah asked, leaning out of the vehicle.

John did not say anything. He just climbed into the taxi and slammed the door shut, croakily giving the driver Sarah's address. She enveloped his hand with hers, giving his fingers a tender squeeze as if to bring him back to her. John returned it, focusing all his attention out of the window. He did not see the consulting detective anywhere, and after about fifteen minutes, turned back to his girlfriend and started a conversation involving how great he had found their meal that evening.

**[SH]**

It was now a routine; knock, hand, notes, baggie, hand, door closed. It was performed as neatly as always, though just as Sherlock was about to complete it by shutting the door, the man on the other side spoke for the first time, splintering it.

"You want to try somethin' new?"

Sherlock was ever eager to try at least everything once, and drugs were no exception. Intrigued, he gave a brisk nod, inviting the dealer to go on.

"It's called Dion—ysus," he explained, pronouncing the name with some difficulty. "Some real strong shit from overseas." He produced a circular round pill from his pocket; it could easily have passed for ibuprofen, and it looked nothing special. "Clever little disguise, right? But this ain't for curin' headaches, mate."

Sherlock studied it fixedly, knowing its namesake, Dionysus, was after the Greek god of ecstasy. This alone made him curious as to what it was capable of doing to him, and as a plus, it would be easy to conceal from Lestrade, perhaps even so much so he could sneakily take it at the station claiming it was for a headache.

"How much?"

"Eighty quid a pill," the man sounded as if he was smiling. "But I'll give you half off for your first go as you're a friend of Raz's an' all." He held it out and settled it down softly in Sherlock's palm.

Sherlock took out his wallet and gave him the £40 that was required, shutting the door without another word.

One o'clock that morning, he planted the pill on his tongue like a seed, and swallowed, shivering as he felt it shift down his throat, taking a gulp of his tall glass of cider. He bared his teeth at the bitter taste raving at the base of his tongue, and eased himself down into his armchair, eyelids descending.

It took a few seconds for it to give him a good old kick, and as the room spun and swirled around him like colourful smoke, he discarded all of his thoughts of John and of Lestrade, of his brother and Moriarty. In his ears, he heard the faded beats of what sounded like a drum, yet he knew it was his own heart, sprinting madly and unevenly. Without thinking or real reason, a throaty laugh belted from him and rang throughout the flat, bouncing playfully off the walls and waltzing romantically around him. Sherlock laughed until his lungs ran empty, and his voice died with a creak. Mrs Hudson's faint calls scarcely reached him, and the small amount of it that did, was not cared for. He rose to go up to bed but his legs gave way and he collapsed on the floor face first.

**[SH]**

**TBC**

_**Reviews are always appreciated **_


	5. Four: Nothing More Without Him

_**There was a delay in writing this chapter due to being sick and starting university. I felt like such a fan-girl when I found out my building is the Baker Building—I do not care I am glad I'm in the Baker Building! Plus, I keep looking around for a lonely student Sherlock so I can give him a hug to assure him that at least one person doesn't hate him. Anyway, please review! Constructive criticism is also welcomed and anonymous reviews, just let me know what you think. Also, I am contemplating on having a chapter looking back on Sherlock and how he got addicted to drugs in the first place. Any thoughts on this? Let me know in the reviews or message me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**_

_**Also, quickly, if you think Sherlock's falling back into drug addiction is too fast, then here is my reasoning for why I wrote it that way. In my point of view, Sherlock is a very fragile person and in scenes such as well Sebastian states in "The Blind Banker" that everyone at university hated him, he reveals that he is really just a vulnerable being who wound up being alone for most of his life. Now, John is the one person who praised his talents, who wasn't put off or agitated by them. He put up with Sherlock, and once that was gone, when he believed he'd ruined the first good thing to come into his life, Sherlock would punish himself in the one way he knows, which is through drugs. **_

_**Also I apologise for the spelling and grammatical errors in the previous chapter. **_

**[SH] **

_**Two weeks later...**_

People had always seemed replaceable to Sherlock; he could guarantee that he could find a near replica of a person without too great a difficulty. He was blind to the fine threads that connected people to one another, the strength of those ties and bonds did not exist to him. He had never been close to his family. Mycroft had been the favourite, and Sherlock was the one in the background, living in the cool shade of his brother's shadow. Sherlock did not care to keep in contact; if they wanted him, they could make the effort for once. To his disdain, they rarely did—save Mycroft of course who was keen to have his little brother under his thumb for the rest of his days.

When John went, Sherlock immediately assured himself that there was bound to be a substitute to fill in the tiny, insignificant space the doctor had left behind. But, even though he would never admit it to anyone, not even to himself, John had left a colossal void when he had gone.

Before John, Sherlock managed. That was all he was capable of doing when it came to taking care of himself; he just only just about manage it. Before John Watson, Sherlock's life had been frantic like violent waves, crashing and, at times, overwhelming and drowning him, though that was all part of the thrill. When the doctor arrived, he was able to pull Sherlock out when things became too much. John was more aware of Sherlock's limits than Sherlock himself. At the beginning, Sherlock saw this as agitating and annoying, and only when it was gone, did he realise how much he _needed_ it. He needed someone to enter his frenetic world and to make it calm once in a while, take off some of the weight and offer a hand when he needed to be pulled back onto his feet.

The drugs were meant to be John's replacement. They were meant to clear his head. They were meant to make him better, make him calm. Sherlock realised that they were not doing that, that they were making him worse but just like John, he couldn't bear to see them go otherwise he would be completely and utterly alone with his vicious thoughts that scratched and engraved themselves into his skull.

**[SH]**

"You look awful."

Sherlock, who had had his hands over his eyes, spread his fingers slightly to peer through them to look at Lestrade. It had been exactly fourteen days, 336 hours and 20,160 minutes since John had exited from his life. It felt like such an immense amount of time, and Sherlock was bewildered as to how he had survived so long.

"Are you coming down with something?" Lestrade pried when he received no response, attempting to appear indifferent by the answer by shuffling through papers as if he were looking for something and was only inquiring to fill the silence.

"I keep getting—headaches," Sherlock replied, sliding his hands down his face and dropping back down onto the table with a thud. It wasn't exactly a lie, his head was throbbing, and his eyes felt like they had been open under water for a great amount of time. They stung so badly he had to keep rubbing them, making them red and puffy as though he had been crying.

Lestrade frowned a little, quirking an eyebrow and glancing over the papers briefly. "Maybe you ought to get that checked out," he suggested. He was about to add 'why don't you go to the doctor's about it' but noticed that it may draw attention to the fact that Sherlock's somewhat personal doctor wasn't around anymore.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning back in his seat. "I may just need to take some pain killers or something." Lestrade remained oblivious to the hint of a flash in the consulting detective's eyes.

"Yeah well, if it gets any worse—do something about it," Lestrade said, supposedly finding what he had been looking for and turning away.

Before he could go however, Sherlock added swiftly: "Have you found him yet?"

Lestrade twisted around, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He knew precisely to whom Sherlock was referring. "Nothing; it's as if he—never existed, like he was just a figment of our imaginations or something."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "I've been searching for signs of him, anything, for quite some time."

"So that's why you've been gracing us with your company," Lestrade said. "Just in case something pops up and we don't think to mention it to you."

Sherlock nodded again, connecting his fingertips into a steeple, lowering his head so the tip of his nose touched it. "No luck though. Everything I've chased up or looked into, just leads me to a dead, dull end." He exhaled. "He isn't dead, I know that for certain. No, I may need to talk to someone who got the closest to him, possibly without him even knowing it."

"Who's that?" Lestrade's ears pricked up at this.

"I need to pay a visit to Bart's morgue," Sherlock sprang up to his feet, grimacing a bit at the movement, tugged on his coat and wound his scarf around his neck. "Care to join me, Lestrade? Or do you want to go through some more blank pieces of paper to find an excuse to talk to me?"

Lestrade's face burned alarmingly red as he noticed the sheets of paper he'd been pretending to look at, were in fact blank. Sherlock smirked at him and brushed past him without waiting for the detective inspector to decide on whether he was going too or not. He knew the answer, and sure enough, Lestrade trailed on behind him, hot at his heels.

Sherlock had an odd thing about getting into the police car, so, after a heated debate he and Lestrade hailed a taxi and travelled in absolute silence. Sherlock seemed to be wading deep into his thoughts, so Lestrade sealed his lips and distracted himself by observing nothing in particular out of the window. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock tentatively massaging his temple and take out a white pill from his pocket, slotting it into his mouth. Minutes later, he became visibly more relaxed.

It didn't take them long to find Molly Hooper; as per usual she was down in the mortuary, timid and dainty as ever, but these mannerisms intensified when she laid eyes on the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes, who seemed oblivious to his effect on her.

"Ah, morning, Molly!" he greeted loudly, his baritone voice reverberating around them like a choir.

She was blushing fiercely, hanging her head low over her clipboard as she made notes on the deceased man on the table. "Oh—hello," she mumbled.

"Long time no see," Sherlock pressed on, taking in the sight of the dead man as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world to be facing. "Listen, I hope you don't mind," he wrinkled his nose, sitting at the corner of the table so he was directly in front of Molly, forcing her to look into his face. "But detective inspector Lestrade and I have a few questions for you. Are you free now?"

"Oh—um—no, not really—I have to f-finish with Mr. Guillam and—"

"Please, Molly," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly skinned of the nice cheerful tone that was now deadly serious. The smile dropped from his face as he studied her expression in an imploring way. "We _need_ to talk to you."

Lestrade uneasily witnessed the exchange, contemplating whether he should step in and offer a kinder word to ensure her that she wasn't in trouble. Before he could, she quietly agreed, zipping up the black bag to conceal the face of the late Mr. Guillam to be seen to later and she took them over into her office so they could talk in private.

She was blatantly very nervous, and she kept shakily brushing stray wisps of her hair behind her ear, bowing her head as if to hide the pink hue of her cheeks, though it had very little effect as Sherlock noticed them within seconds. He pressed onwards though; he was fully aware of what method to approach Molly Hooper with and he intended to use it to his advantage. As long as he remained endearing and complimentary, perhaps even flirty, they could get whatever they wanted out of her.

"D-do you want some coffee?" Molly asked tentatively.

"Oh no, Molly, we'll be fine," Sherlock countered hastily, tilting the corner of his mouth up into a crooked smile that didn't quite claim his pale eyes.

"Speak for yourself," Lestrade grumbled.

Molly glanced up at the detective inspector, unsure whether she should just make him a coffee. Noticing this, Sherlock pounced, eager to use the buzz he was getting from the pill to get answers.

"So," he clapped his hands loudly together, causing not only Molly to jump but Lestrade also. "Jim from IT wasn't quite—Jim from IT was he Molly?" she tensed. "Did you have any idea of his true identity?" he already knew what her answer was going to be.

"No!" Molly looked aghast, daring to look him straight in the eye. "I honestly didn't! Please believe me! I would never get involved with someone that—that—" her face went ashen for a moment and then she dropped her gaze down once more.

"After the phone number incident," Sherlock continued, unfazed by her response. "Did you confront him?"

Molly swallowed hard and gingerly nodded. "Yes...I was so angry...I went to speak to him as soon as I left. I—demanded to know if he was gay, if he was using me and what he was doing and he just—he told me he wasn't and that it wasn't his number under the dish. I knew it was, and I broke it off with him..." something was wrong the last part, Sherlock noted. Embarrassment eloped with her anxiousness, and his eyes widened slightly.

"He proved that he wasn't gay, didn't he?" Sherlock said, triumph burning hotly in his chest when she slowly raised her head again, her mouth parted and tears glimmering in her eyes. "He seduced you?"

Lestrade cleared his throat out of discomfort and fidgeted on the spot.

Molly said and did nothing for a while, just staring off into space as if she was reliving the moment. The pain, the anger, the humiliation danced hungrily in her eyes, and Sherlock grew impatient, desperate to know what sort of scene was playing in her mind. Eventually, she spoke again.

"Yes," she said quietly, closing her eyes so the tears collapsed down her face.

"What happened after that?"

She sniffed, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve and looking away. "Nothing really...we stayed together and for some time things were...they were nice." She gave a wan smile that instantly gave way to the great weight of her emotions. "Then the next thing I know, I find out he's resigned from Bart's and he's just...disappeared. He left me a note though—"

"What did it say?" Sherlock cut her off before she could even finish her sentence, his heart skipping a beat.

"It just said sorry," Molly replied, and Sherlock looked immensely disappointed. "Sorry and that he couldn't be with me anymore. It hurt but...I oddly didn't mind too much..."

"Do you still have the note?" Sherlock interjected a second time. Each of his muscles was taut under his flesh and they were even starting to hurt from the way they were all bunched up together. His knee started to jig and he leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped together under his chin, digging into her tear-filled eyes with his own, searching for something, anything.

Molly nodded, recoiling from the sudden closeness as if she couldn't stand to be near him. "It's in the bin over there."

Sherlock shot up and crossed over to the small bin that was sat next to the door, already dissecting it of its contents. There wasn't a lot in there, just plastic sandwich boxes, quite a few used tissues (from crying he guessed), and the odd apple cord but the note was there. It was only a little crumpled and the paper was tender in some places, indicating that she'd cried all over it making it brittle.

He straightened up once he'd gotten his hands on it and scanned his eyes over the scrawl. There was a lot more there than Molly had told them, yet it was mostly just about why he couldn't be with her anymore. It read:

_Dearest Molly,_

_I'm afraid we cannot be together anymore. I have resigned from my job so to make things easier for you. I got a job offer in Cardiff and I'm going to take it. I'm sorry things have to end this way. _

_Jim_

Sherlock reread it approximately six times before handing it over to Lestrade, who was eagerly holding out a hand to accept it. Already, ideas were zipping through his mind like fireworks but none had yet exploded, catching alight for him to behold. They had started to fade and he was engulfed by disappointment, biting his thumb the way he used to as a child whenever he was stressed.

"Cardiff...reckon that's where he is?" Lestrade said hopefully.

"No, it's too obvious," Sherlock said coolly. "He knew we would go to Molly, and that we'd see the note. He did it in hopes of making us dance around pointlessly. Besides, that's where the pink lady came from, remember? Just a little jab at me I suppose."

Lestrade wasn't entirely convinced, and made a mental note to call a couple of stations in Cardiff to ask questions later. He didn't mention this to Sherlock though, and shyly offered the piece of paper back to Molly, who went to accept it only to have it snatched by the consulting detective.

"It's still evidence," he snapped, stuffing it into his breast pocket. "Sorry, I'll have to confiscate it."

Molly didn't argue, and neither did Lestrade; they honestly didn't get chance to because after taking it, Sherlock strode out of the room without so much as a thank you or a goodbye.

"Sorry about that," Lestrade said to Molly, smiling faintly. "He's like that."

"I know," Molly murmured, playing with her ponytail absentmindedly. "I'm really sorry—about Jim. I truthfully had no idea..."

"No one blames you, you know," Lestrade assured her. "He outwitted Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake! Though the ruddy bastard would never admit to it, he got the better of him. So no one thinks badly of you, alright?"

Molly nodded and returned his smile. "Thank you," she whispered.

"No problem," Lestrade made for the door. "Mind how you go."

"You too," Molly returned.

**[SH]**

Mycroft liked to think he knew his little brother better than anyone else did. He liked to believe that he could read Sherlock in every language, in brail even, and he would still understand him with ease. He predicted what a mess Sherlock would make of his relationship with John, though he wasn't glad about it. He'd much rather have someone there all of the time to keep an eye on him, someone who could withstand his extreme mood changes and his brash and boorish behaviour. Still, it seemed no one was able to do that and it left Mycroft gravely disappointed.

Mycroft had been let up by Mrs Hudson, who always seemed reluctant to open the door to him at all because she would feel responsible for whatever argument or trouble ensued between the siblings. He had knocked on his brother's flat door, simply out of habit for he knew that Sherlock would be aware of whom it was paying a visit and would refuse to answer. Mycroft had a copy of the key anyway, and brought it forth from his coat pocket after waiting two minutes for Sherlock. He justified just waltzing into his brother's flat by telling himself that he'd given him the chance to let him in on his own accord.

The flat was in a grand state. It looked as though Sherlock had gathered every item he owned and had thrown it up into the air like confetti, allowing it to strew itself all over the floor. Every step he took forwards, Mycroft was not standing on carpet at all and he rolled his eyes, pulling a face at the revolting smell emanating from the kitchen, most likely drawn from Sherlock's various experiments that were no longer reined in by the sensible mind of Doctor Watson. He brought a hand to his face as he paused for a moment, listening out for any sound indicating his sibling's presence. The absolute silence would have indicated, to any normal person that he wasn't home but to Mycroft, this just suggested that he was either hiding out or asleep or just sitting stock still staring listlessly off into space.

Mycroft showed himself to Sherlock's room, doing his best to step over things that looked like they would break if he were to tread on them, using his umbrella to nudge them to the side out of harm's way. The kitchen looked disgraceful, and he told himself he would order his brother to clean it up once he found him. The bathroom was, surprisingly, neat and looked untouched apart from lavatory, which he gathered from the toilet paper nearly running out. He would have carried on if it weren't for the medicine cabinet. The door was left wide open, a majority of the contents was missing, either scattered on the floor or— Mycroft's eyes widened, and he went still.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, a strangled voice that was not often heard passing his lips. He ran to Sherlock's bedroom, his heart racing. It wouldn't be the first time he's done this...tried to see how far he could push himself to the edge of life just to find a reason to stay. "You better not be doing this to me again!"

The sight he found caused his heart to lurch in his chest and he bolted to his brother's side. White pills lay around him like autumn leaves. Sherlock had his eyes closed as he lay on his back, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, one arm lying across his stomach. Mycroft clutched his sibling's shoulders, lifting him up and roughly shaking him.

"Sherlock! How much have you taken? Tell me! How much have you taken?"

To his amazement, Sherlock's eyes opened and he looked almost bored with his brother's reaction, as if he had just woke him up to tell him something pointless. Mycroft stopped shaking him, stunned to find tears were trickling down his cheeks. He examined Sherlock briskly with his gaze and quickly calculated that his brother had not taken anything in fact. His chest constricted but still he couldn't bring himself to let him go.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said flatly. "You're hurting me. Could you do me a favour and loosen that gorilla like grip of yours. You always did use your weight against me; most people would call that playing dirty."

Mycroft usually would have reacted hotly to the quip, yet this time he was just relieved he still had this brother in front of him, no matter how spiteful he could be at times, no matter how cold and ignorant and arrogant—

He did as he was told, removing his hands and lowering them slowly to hang limply at his sides. The two brothers watched each other closely for some time. Sherlock smoothed out his clothes and sat up straight, leaning his back against the wall with his knees tucked up to his chest, winding his slender arms around them to keep them in place.

"You jumped to conclusions," Sherlock remarked. "You never do that. Usually, you give yourself a couple of minutes to work things out. You should really keep your head, Mycroft, in the heat of a moment to avoid making such stupid mistakes."

"Shut up," Mycroft countered, humiliated to find he was flushing at this comment. "It's near enough impossible to think rationally when it comes to your little brother, and thinking about him trying to kill himself—_again_."

"Oh God will you ever let that go?" Sherlock demanded exasperatedly. "I was nineteen!"

"Doesn't matter how old you were, Sherlock," Mycroft glowered at him. "You will always be my little brother, and I will always react the same. Even when you're ninety-years-old..."

"I'll never reach ninety," Sherlock interrupted. "Don't be daft."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as that last statement really sunk in, and it made Mycroft feel secretly incredibly upset.

"What's with all the pills anyway?" Mycroft said abruptly as if remembering the reason for his current position in the first place.

Sherlock bit his lip, looking somewhat ashamed of himself. "I was thinking about it...you know...," he admitted. "But I really couldn't, there's too much exciting things going on right now."

Mycroft frowned. "Like what?"

Sherlock shrugged and, after receiving a spine tingling glare, sighed loudly. "Moriarty!"

"He's gone, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out. "You have to let him go."

"You really are incredibly dense sometimes," Sherlock spat.

"No, _you_ are the incredibly dense one," Mycroft bristled at the insult. He noticed how childish he sounded and dropped it, casting his eyes down to his lap.

"Why did you come over?"

Mycroft looked up. For a brief second, he completely forgot but he retrieved it rapidly. "I just wanted to check up on you." He gave a tight-lipped smile. When Sherlock didn't look convinced, he changed tack. "Sherlock, roll up your sleeves."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked upwards as he figured out what was wanted from him. "Ah, I see what this is—"

"Sherlock," Mycroft intruded the snide reaction, rising to his feet to add to his authority. "Your sleeves, now."

They stared each other down, Mycroft's heart picking up frantic pace as Sherlock started to unbutton his cuffs without further argument. Sherlock rolled each of them up to the elbow roughly so to emphasise his disapproval, despite the action nipping painfully at his skin. Then he stretched out both of his arms so his pale forearms were visible for Mycroft to see. Mycroft reached out and took the left one, searching for any marks that appeared recent.

There were the faint scars of previous puncture marks, though there was no bruising and the skin didn't look abused or irritated in anyway. He took the right one just in case and, to his expanding comfort, found nothing that would suggest anything. His features went lax and his entire body slouched as if he had been freed from some vice that had entrapped him. Sherlock shook his brother off and started to roll his sleeves back down, his face somewhat red.

"Thank you," Mycroft said softly prior to turning away and heading for the door.

"For what?" Sherlock called after him.

Mycroft hovered in the doorway for some time, his back to his sibling thankfully so he wouldn't be able to see the tears gathering like a storm in his eyes once more.

"For sticking to your promise this time," he replied once he was brave enough to speak without his voice giving way.

And with that, Mycroft Holmes took his leave.

**[SH]**

They were watching '_Love Actually_' when the hand of the clock touched eleven that night, and the instant the credits started to roll, John turned off the television set, stretching his aching joints. When he started to yawn, Sarah covered his mouth with her hand, bringing him to look over to her. He smiled warmly at her, holding her hand there and pressing his lips to her palm.

"Tired already?" she asked innocently.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said, intertwining their fingers.

"I don't mind, I have to be up at six tomorrow anyway," she ran her thumb along the roof of his hand.

John went to give her a kiss goodnight when she touched his chest, halting him in his movement. She ran her hand down, feeling the flutter of her heart against it as she did so.

"You know—you don't have to sleep on the lie low, don't you?" she breathed. "I want to wake up to you tomorrow. Could you do that for me?"

John swallowed and nodded, eyes dancing from hers to her slightly parted lips, which he then greeted with his own in a deep, loving kiss.

That night, John slept in Sarah's bed and for the first time, they made love. It wasn't a matter of spontaneous pleasure seeking, it wasn't frantic or crazy or even heated. It was tender, and though they desired one another, they just lay together like a husband and a wife, who had loved and had each other for a very long time. They were sharing themselves, revealing their old scars, their hidden freckles, and birthmarks. They were stripped down to their very core, and were allowing the other to witness it comfortably. John lay beside her afterwards; she was lying on her front with her head turned to face him, her arms tucked up with her chest with her back rising and falling slowly in sleep. John stroked the hair from her face, and pressed a doting kiss to her forehead.

While John was sharing his body with Sarah, Sherlock was lying on his sofa, Dionysus sitting on his tongue and then he gulped it down without the assistance of any liquid, savouring the discomfort he felt as he did so. His mind turned to John right then, imagining what would happen if he had burst in on him as his brother had done. What would he say? What would he do? Would he take Sherlock in his arms the way Mycroft did? Would he shake him roughly? Would he be saddened or angered? Would he kiss him and curse him half-heartedly for being so foolish? Sherlock's breath hitched as the tears shimmered in his eyes, dribbling down his cheeks.

Mycroft sat in his office, hands clasped under his chin as he cried without a sound, his shoulders heaving with the soundless sobs that cut through him.

Police cars were packed into a thin street, and Lestrade stepped out under the flashing red and blue lights of the sirens. He looked about him, the wind freezing cold against his face. He was approached by Donovan who held out a plastic baggie and in it; Lestrade saw was the pink phone...

**TBC**


	6. Five: The Case of Erica Marshall

_**Thank you for your reviews; please continue to lead me feedback, all feedback is appreciated and taken into account.**_

**[SH]**

"Erica Marshall, seven-years-old, last seen leaving her primary school last Wednesday," Lestrade listed off the facts, eyes trying to keep up with the heated speed of Sherlock who paced impatiently as he listened. "Her parents thought she'd gone to visit her grandmother's but—"

"The big bad wolf got to her first," Sherlock cut him off, not even trying to restrain the smirk that was creeping into the corners of his lips. "And you found the phone in her bedroom?"

"Yeah," Lestrade continued once given his cue to talk again. "And a message too."

Sherlock had already seen it. A photograph of a sodden and worn teddy bear, that had already been identified as the little girl's first toy that she had been given when she was born. The bear, of course, was missing.

The pink mobile phone was clasped between his long, slender hands that were already trembling with anticipation and the first hint of withdrawal, as he hadn't taken anything for a good few hours. Already the symptoms were prickling awake, but for once, Sherlock didn't bother with them. In fact, they drove and urged him to get going. All that was needed now was the phone call.

"Maybe you should sit down for a second," Lestrade suggested. "You're going to wear the floor down."

Before he could either comply or argue, the phone managed half a yelp and Sherlock, thumb having already being poised over the button, pressed down and swiftly brought it to his ear, nearly dropping it over his shoulder in his haste. His chest tight, mouth parted, eyes swivelling, his breath deceased—he waited.

"Oh how I hate the quiet game," a soft voice cut through his ear like a needle, injecting the tremor that zigzagged down his spine.

"Is this better?" Sherlock hoarsely said, trying to return the offhand manner.

"Exceedingly."

Lestrade licked his lips as he impatiently sat by, fidgeting in his seat, gripping the arms of it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"No borrowed voice this time?" Sherlock added after a pause that felt like an eternity.

There was a short laugh on the other end. "No, because there's no bomb this time." Sherlock was truly captivated now, just as Jim Moriarty had intended. "You must listen to me now, Sherlock, because—there's a new set of rules and if you don't follow them, there will be consequences."

"Aren't there always when it comes to you?" Sherlock rigidly countered, his windpipe so tight his words had to practically crawl out of his mouth.

"Yes, but this time, the victims aren't random, they aren't strangers to you," Moriarty explained, a strange tune to his voice as if he was hardly suppressing laughter. "Listen to me very closely, now...there is no bomb this time but people will still die if you don't abide by the rules and if you don't figure out my puzzle this time. Look over to DI Lestrade, and you will see what I mean."

Sherlock did as instructed, trying to cast aside the fear that rippled in his stomach as he did so. Lestrade was watching him intently, and hovering directly between his eyes was a red dot. Sherlock's blood turned thick with cold and he looked away, striding over to the window, desperately searching for any sign of a sniper.

"I see you're taking me seriously now," Moriarty remarked excitedly.

"What do you want?"

Moriarty winced. "Oh, so cliché a statement there, my dear. Want to try rephrasing that?"

Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes so to cool off the intense frustration bubbling inside of him. "What do you want me to do?" he tried.

"Not quite what I wanted but I'll let that one slide. You have to find Erica Marshall. That is the puzzle."

"The rules?"

"This is my favourite part, I must admit. You see, you have three hours to find her. You cannot tell anyone about the snipers; let them jump around looking for a bomb, as a bit of entertainment for me while I wait for you to—figure it out. If you tell anyone, they will be shot. If you don't figure out my puzzle in time, I will choose someone close to you at random. As you've probably already guessed, I'm afraid the detective inspector is in that raffle...and that pet of yours..."

Sherlock's eyes peeled slowly open. "John has nothing to do with me anymore." He struggled to maintain an indifferent manner and a steady voice. It was difficult, though and he couldn't say anything else for the fear of it wobbling and giving him away.

"I'll just put it like this—you can't burn out your own heart, Sherlock. Only I can do that."

"Three hours starting now," Sherlock said and hung up without waiting for a response.

"What happened?" Lestrade inquired, unsure whether he should approach the other man or stay put so not to distract him or anything. "Was it Moriarty?" he pressed when he received no reply.

"Yes," Sherlock said once he trusted himself to speak again.

"What did he say?"

Sherlock felt sick. He continued to stare out of the window, eyes narrowing on the black beads of people running like perspiration down the streets, ignorant to what was happening to him. It felt like everything was swaying around him, when in reality, he was unsteady, and he brought a hand to his eyes to make it all drop dead. The world, for a moment, was pitch black and no longer existed. He preferred it. No Jim Moriarty, no drugs, no pain, no boredom, just nothing.

"Sherlock—are you okay?"

That illusion was punctured and Sherlock removed his hands and turned around to face the detective inspector, who was studying him carefully. He drew in a long breath, and then clenched his fists as he exhaled, broadening his shoulders, and marching forwards.

"Hey! Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, clambering to his feet and following on behind him. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to Erica Marshall's parents!" Sherlock called, not glancing over his shoulder as he walked.

**[SH]**

"This is getting to be borderline harassment now, detective inspector," Mr. Marshall remarked bitterly as he handed the one a mug of coffee and the other a tall glass of water. "We've told you everything we know."

Lestrade offered a grim and apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Marshall," he said softly. "But the thing is, Mr. Holmes here is the best guy we have to offer you right now and he needs to hear the story from your mouth."

Mr. Marshall's eyes hopped over to Sherlock, who was staring fixedly at him with his pale, inquisitive eyes. The two men watched each other for a moment, and then finally the daughter's father sagged his shoulders in defeat as he eased himself down in the armchair opposite them.

"Erica's never done anything like this before, you see," he began, the statement worn and tired as if he had repeated it many times before. "She would never wander off without myself or my wife waiting for her outside the school, you see. I was working the night and I usually take a kip in the afternoon until I have to pick Erica up from school. My alarm—it didn't go off." He stroked his beard, tears tripping down his cheeks. "I woke up and I saw I was half an hour late. I ran out, as fast as I could, you know, didn't even bother to get changed. When I got there, Erica was nowhere to be seen. We always told her, that if ever we weren't there to pick her up, for her to go down to her grandmother's because she doesn't live far from the school so that's the place I went after checking in the school."

"She wasn't there," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together.

"I called my wife there and then and asked her if she'd seen Erica," Mr. Marshall continued shakily. "She said she hadn't and came straight home. We asked everywhere, you don't understand. Neighbours, teachers, Erica's friends...but no one had seen her. The last they saw of her, was her waiting in the playground for me to come pick her up." His chin was quivering badly and he heaved in a stuttering breath.

Lestrade hated situations such as these and wanted nothing more than to just produce the girl out of thin air and return her to her devastated father's arms, but that wasn't possible. He could do nothing, but sit there witnessing this man's turmoil. He glimpsed at Sherlock and, to his horror though not so much to his surprise, the consulting detective seemed unfazed by the scene in front of him. In fact, he looked rather annoyed at the intervals as the grieving parent wept.

"Everyone's been so helpful," Mr. Marshall said suddenly. "Offering us donations, and posting fliers everywhere. They've been a great help, we owe them so much."

"Where is your wife, by the way?" Sherlock pried as if nothing had been said.

"Sleeping, at last," Mr. Marshall answered. "Neither of us has slept a wink since Erica's disappearance."

"Can we see her room?" Sherlock leapt to his feet. His knees were weak when he did that, yet he assured himself no one had noticed. They hadn't either. Lestrade was too busy being bewildered as to why Sherlock was so immune to human emotion, and Mr. Marshall was too taken aback by the request to even care.

"Um—" he began only to be interjected.

"We won't be a moment," Sherlock promised. "Just to check if the guys before us had missed any clues as to your daughter's location."

Mr. Marshall nodded. "Please be quiet though," he pleaded quietly. "Beth's fast asleep."

"Trust me, she won't hear a peep from us," Sherlock offered an unconvincing smile and showed himself up the stairs.

Lestrade awkwardly followed, muttering a second apology as he passed Mr. Marshall. It didn't take any real genius to figure out which room belonged to the little girl, as it had flowers painted on and her name carved out of wood hanging up in the centre of it. Sherlock was already in the midst of rummaging through her belongings when Lestrade joined him.

"You don't have to be so cold, you know," Lestrade hissed. "That man's lost his daughter!"

"He's lying," Sherlock retorted flatly as if it was blatant.

"Sorry what?" Lestrade had to pause to refrain from yelling.

"He's lying," Sherlock said again, drawing out the word 'lying' as if he was conversing with an idiot, which, in his opinion, he was.

"What are you talking about?"

"He said that he and his wife hadn't been able to sleep since Erica had gone missing," Sherlock explained hurriedly, not stopping his search as he spoke. "That was last Wednesday. That is quite a while for someone to go without sleep, and I'm afraid he bore none of the signs. No bags under the eyes, he had a good complexion and he'd put an effort into his appearance."

"What?"

Sherlock groaned, finally halting in his proceedings to face the other man. "When you haven't slept for a great deal of time, you don't exactly care how you look, and even if you do, you can't clean up _**that**_ nicely. Your mind will be cloudy and you will, for example, miss a button or have your fly undone. In addition, your clothes wouldn't be so—coordinated. You would be more likely to put on odd socks or to wear an outfit that didn't match but no; his outfit was sorted out this morning with a clear head."

Lestrade blinked. "You're accusing a man of lying about his missing daughter because of what he's wearing?"

Sherlock looked exasperated. "Please, just shut up for a minute will you."

"No, you shut up!" Lestrade spat, crossing the room to stand a few inches away from the consulting detective in an intimidating manner.

The two glowered at one another. "You're too emotionally involved," Sherlock breathed. "You better sit this one out so I can figure out exactly why this man is lying in time."

"It's all about puzzles to you, Sherlock," Lestrade said through gritted teeth, pointing at him. "It's all a big game to you, isn't it? But it isn't a game; people's lives are at risk! A little girl, is missing and..."

"Greg," Sherlock cut him off. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

Lestrade, jaw and fists simultaneously clenched, stormed off to the far end of the room, crossing his arms firmly over his chest as he watched the other man pick up from where he left off. Little did he know how fast Sherlock's heart was racing, how sweaty his palms now were, how his brain felt as though it was being rolled over and over in his skull. His vision was blurry as he rummaged through a box stuffed with toys, tossing the insignificant ones aside. He was searching for the bear, that's what he was looking for, but it kept slipping from his mind. Sherlock kept having to pause for a second or two to straighten himself out, to set himself in the right direction again. It was becoming increasingly difficult, and he knew that if he could just dunk his hand into his coat pocket, pop a pill onto his tongue and swallow it, things would get easier and his head clearer. He had already tried though, only to find to his dismay that he had used up the last of the Dionysus and now, he would be a mess until tonight when he could call Raz and get some more.

He had an hour and a half left to find out where the missing Erica Marshall was, and he was even annoyed with himself that he wasn't finding out where Erica was, but was instead trying to prove why her father was lying. Was he lying? Sherlock shook his head. Of course he was lying. His attire had informed him of that, but how could he prove it? And what did his lying mean? Was he just over exaggerating when he said they hadn't slept since last week? Or did it have a deeper and darker meaning? At that instant, Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to be there...

"Find anything?" Lestrade angrily asked.

Sherlock ignored him. Find the bear, find the bear, he told himself, turning the box over to tip its organs out onto the carpet, rifling through the various toys that the girl owned. As he did this, the seconds, the minutes, the hour tiptoed away, its steps creaking loudly in its wake.

Time. He needed more of it, and desperately but his brain was so misty. It was as though only a fraction of his mind was focusing on figuring this out, whilst the rest of it moaned and demanded to know where the pills were and why they weren't in his system. His hands started to shake violently and, out of sheer agitation, he cursed loudly and banged his fist against the wall. Within seconds, Lestrade was on him. He was only gripping his shoulders, pulling him away and reminding him through grounded teeth that they were supposed to be quiet, but Sherlock turned around and shoved him roughly off.

Lestrade stared for a moment, not entirely sure how he should react. Sherlock, in all the years he'd known him, had never once lashed out physically at him. With biting words, of course, but never actually—if it had been anyone else, he probably would have retaliated. He had half a mind to despite this. However, he was halted by the apologetic and immediately remorseful expression cut deeply into the consulting detective's face.

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade put up both of his hands in surrender and to signal there was no harm done. Sherlock didn't relax entirely, but did so enough to return to his search. Suddenly, there was the sound of the thunderous steps on the stairs and Mr. Marshall burst into the room, absolutely livid. Trailing dozily behind him was who Sherlock supposed was his wife.

In a blink of an eye, Mr. Marshall was on Sherlock, shoving him hard against the wall with his arm pressed firmly against his throat, his other hand gripping tightly onto his coat. Lestrade leapt into action, yet he still felt powerless against really doing anything against a man who had just lost his daughter and was grieving. He just clutched the father's shoulder and tried to pry him off, but it was no good.

"Mr. Marshall, please," Lestrade attempted to keep a calm tone, eyes darting from him to Sherlock, who's pale face was filled with a hint of colour for the first time in ages. "He meant no harm; he's just frustrated you see—"

"_**He's**_ frustrated? _**Him**_? Mr. Marshall shouted.

"You seem to be overreacting a little," Sherlock remarked placidly as if he wasn't in his current situation at all and they were simply chatting over coffee. "If you were worried about me waking your wife, Mr. Marshall, you would..."

"What would you know about human emotions?" Mr. Marshall demanded, the vein standing out on his forehead. "You don't care about my daughter being gone at all, do you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Caring? I would have thought you'd be more keen on me finding your daughter rather than me sitting there crying at your sob story."

"My—my what?" Mr. Marshall echoed, not quite sure, he believed what he had just heard.

Lestrade, who had still been trying to pull the two apart, froze in his actions, looking at Sherlock pleadingly, mutely begging him not to say anything stupid.

"Your sob story," Sherlock reiterated. "That's all it is really. Not _**once**_ have you mentioned your poor daughter, you've only mentioned how hard it's been for you. That's all you care about isn't it really? About people caring about your plight—"

He didn't get any further than that. Mr. Marshall's fist collided with his cheek, throwing him down onto the ground. Grieving father or no grieving father, Lestrade saw his que to intervene with force this time, and as Mr. Marshall went to collect up the thin man lying on the floor for a second assault, Lestrade thrust him aside, putting a hand to his chest to restrain him from advancing again.

"OI!" Lestrade hollered, surprising all those around him. "That's enough now! Go downstairs and cool yourself off, Mr. Marshall, before I have you charged for assault."

"You siding with him?" Mr. Marshall seethed. "That—that psychopath?"

"No matter what he is, that is none of your business. He is working to help find your daughter, and that alone should earn a bit of your respect. Now, please if you will. Cool off downstairs, and I will have a word with him," Lestrade ordered levelly.

Beth Marshall made her move and slipped her arm into her husbands, stroking his scraped knuckles tenderly. Mr. Marshall was, of course, reluctant and didn't move for a couple of minutes, his wide chest heaving from the adrenaline hissing in his system. Eventually, he nodded and shuffled out with his wife alongside him.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, expecting to see him still sprawled out on the floor only to find him up and about, continuing to look through the girl's toys. Shaking his head in disbelief, the detective inspector approached and crouched down next to him. Sherlock looked as though he was oblivious to his presence, and flinched as if in shock when Lestrade touched his arm, pausing his movements.

"There's no time to waste, Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly.

"I know," Lestrade hesitantly agreed, despite wishing Sherlock would take at least a tiny break so they could check the bruise blossoming nicely on his cheekbone. "Let me help, alright? I'm all ears, whatever crazy theories you may have."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, not meeting his gaze, instead pressing his hands together as if in prayer, tucking it under his chin as he thought.

"What did you mean about—about him acting out too brashly?" Lestrade dared to ask. Although he didn't want to disrupt his thoughts, he didn't want to be left out in the dark either.

"He should be tired," Sherlock said. "He shouldn't have the energy to come storming up over to me, and when he held me up against the wall his limbs weren't trembling the way they should if he was sleep deprived. His anger towards me hitting the wall should have been restrained and, though he wouldn't be too happy about it, he wouldn't have reacted like that. He was angry about something else."

"Like what?" Lestrade frowned, disturbed that this was actually making sense.

"He was wary about us going up into her room," Sherlock elaborated, rising to his feet. "He didn't want us to, that's why I didn't leave him room to give us a yes or no answer. I heard him at the foot of the stairs, pacing. Moreover, his wife was very quick on her feet wasn't she?"

"Yeah, because you punched the bloody wall," Lestrade was losing it again.

"Not so much that...whenever I would have—" he pressed his lips together, feeling that drilling pain in his chest. "Whenever I would have John work all-nighters with me on a case, when he would eventually get to sleep he wouldn't wake up even when I shot the wall."

"He _**was **_an army man, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out. He was frankly staggered to hear Sherlock even mention the doctor, especially to him and now. "He's probably used to sleeping through gunshot—hang on, what are you doing with a gun?"

"Never mind that now," Sherlock batted the topic away. "John is a light sleeper usually, but just give him three days without sleep and he's out for the count no matter how loudly I play the violin or—" he noticed the stern look on Lestrade's face and swerved mentioning the gun again. "Or whatever experiments I was doing. She practically just hopped out of bed, if she was in bed at all."

"How do you mean?"

"She was wearing mascara. No woman's eyelashes are that dark and long naturally, and her hair, it looked as though it had been brushed. I highly doubt anyone, not even a woman, jumps out of bed after being disturbed and things to brush her hair over, especially if she's so distraught about her daughter going missing, I think she wouldn't give a damn how she looked."

"Sherlock, we're going around in circles," Lestrade said agitatedly, rubbing his eyes. "What is your obsession with this—lying about their sleeping patterns? Does it really matter?"

"Every little lie matters. It means they're trying to cover their tracks with something, something they don't want us to see. By telling us they've hardly slept, they're evoking something in you. They're making you feel sympathetic for them. Sympathy seems a big deal to the both of them, especially the father." Then suddenly, his face went lax and he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "Have people been donating money to the family?"

"Um, yeah I think so," Lestrade said uncertainly. "The community have started giving donations. Why?"

"So, a father who cares very dearly for sympathy, and donations," Sherlock muttered. "He seemed to care more about how we felt about it rather than how we were going to help find his daughter. He focused on how the family had been coping, none of the usual I hope she's okay, I hope she's this and I hope she's that. You started to feel uncomfortable, I could tell. You could hardly look at him throughout the whole thing, and I'm pretty sure that if he carried on the way he was, you probably would have chipped in to the donations as well to help the family get by."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"The bear is the clue." Sherlock dunked his hand into his coat pocket, bringing forth the pink phone and studying the photograph of the rather miserable looking teddy again.

It was a rather dark picture, but there was one strip of light acting like a scar down the bear's face. So it was in a cupboard of some kind, it had to be. Sherlock scanned the small room again and saw, right at his left hand side, a wardrobe. The door would look, to an untrained eye, closed, but to Sherlock's eye, he saw it was left the slightest bit open. His chest tightened and, at a painful pace, pried open one of halves of the door. The light of the room fell like a pointed finger of blame on the bear. Sherlock reached inside and pulled it out into the open.

Lestrade, who had been watching attentively, caught his breath and sidled up next to Sherlock. They both looked from the photograph to the bear, and there was no doubt they were identical. Sherlock handed Lestrade the phone, and turned the toy over his hand. It was damp.

"Lestrade, was it raining last Wednesday?" he stiffly inquired.

Lestrade shrugged. "It was raining all last week," he replied offhandedly. Then his brow furrowed. "No wait. It rained until Thursday. I remember because Anderson was complaining about being outside all Wednesday night and that when he had to work indoors the next day, it was nice weather—"

"Captivating story, truly," Sherlock interrupted him flatly. "The bear is damp so it must have gotten drenched." He turned it over. "There's dirt in its fur, so a child's possession as they would continuously drop it. Last Wednesday at Erica's school, was it a toy day?"

"Toy day?" Lestrade blinked, confused.

"Primary schools usually have them. It's a day when children can bring their favourite toys to school with them, usually at the end of term, to play with. When did her school break up?"

"Last Wednesday..."

"Erica brought this to school with her. If her parents haven't seen their daughter since last Wednesday, why do they have it in their possession?"

"Maybe Moriarty planted it there."

Sherlock considered this. "That doesn't add up with the parents' bizarre behaviour," he decided. "The grandmother lives only minutes away from the school don't she? And Erica's father admitted that he told his daughter if ever they weren't there to pick her up, that she should go to her grandmother's, so no one would have seen someone taking her away. None of the teachers or other parents would have seen anyone taking Erica away because she left on her own accord, so when Mr. Marshall comes running into the playground half an hour later, no one would have suspected that it was him that took his daughter. He also said that once he realised his daughter was 'gone', he went to the grandmother's house. He probably took the bear from her because it's ripped see." He pointed to a tear under the bear's armpit. "He told her they'd fix and clean it up for her."

"Okay, now you've lost me," Lestrade sighed heavily, a headache coming on.

"Erica Marshall wasn't abducted," Sherlock concluded, grinning. He snatched the mobile phone from Lestrade and punched in the number, bringing it to his ear. It rang once before it was answered. "Erica Marshall was abducted," he said again. "Her parents used the story of their supposed missing child to earn money from the donations being made to their family. She is at her grandmother's, probably just told that she was going to be spending the half term with her, and no one thought to search the old woman's house." He glared at Lestrade at this.

There was an elongated silence and then...

"Well done, Sherlock Holmes, though granted that was rather easy," Moriarty said. "Your old self would have worked that out much quicker."

Sherlock bit his lip. "What happens now? That was your last one, wasn't it? And you wasted it on something like this?"

"My _**last**_ one? Oh no, my dear Sherlock. It's a two-part puzzle. You have a chance to make up for the first part with extra points."

"What is it?"

"So impatient! All in good time. Until then, Sherlock Holmes, you can just train. I want your _**best **_game."

The line went dead.

**TBC**

**I hope this chapter came out well! I found it quite challenging, but I hope my efforts didn't go to waste XD **

**Thank you all so much, for your lovely reviews last chapter, please let me know what you think**

**And for those of you who missed John this chapter, don't worry he plays a big part in the next one, which is currently being written, but until then I will have to pour all my energy now into my university assignment. **

**Again, please review, anonymous or not, and tell me what you think. **


	7. Six: A Brief Reunion

John's day at the clinic was winding down, and he could not have been more relieved even if he had tried. The day had consisted mostly of pressing icy stethoscopes against chests and instructing the patient to breathe in, then informing a majority of them that they simply had a cold and to take it easy and wrap up warm for the next few days. It was incredibly—dull, but John insisted on reminding himself that 'dull' was good sometimes, and that this was going to be good for him in the long run.

The last patient of the day having been seen out, John checked the time to see he was five minutes early and chose to pack away his belongings at a leisurely pace. Just as started to do this, there came a light knock on his door and one of the receptionists' heads popped around it.

"Um, Doctor Watson there is a man here to see you," she said just about loud enough for him to hear. "He says he doesn't have an appointment, but it's urgent that he sees you immediately."

John rolled his eyes and cast a second, almost longing, glance at the clock hung up on the wall. He still had four minutes or so to kill before Sarah would finish up and they could head home together. He still found it strange to call her place his home because it honestly didn't feel like it; he still felt like a guest...but all the same, it would be better than to sit around aimlessly. He shrugged.

"See him in," John decided, reclining back in his chair as the receptionist nodded and went to do as asked.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this man. John literally bolted upright again in his seat as Mycroft Holmes, coat in the nook of his arm and his frequent umbrella companion in his other hand, let himself into the room.

"John," Mycroft greeted shortly, standing behind his chair rather than sitting in it.

John's jaw dropped a little though he hastily recovered himself and achieved a wan smile. "Oh er—hi! Hey!" he was stuck for words, and had to prevent himself from vocalising the thoughts that sprang to his mind, most of them connecting to Sherlock in one-way or another. John wasn't an idiot, despite what Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes may think. He definitely wasn't an idiot when it came to things concerning the younger Holmes brother, and understood immediately that he was going to be the topic of Mycroft's visit.

"I will skip the small talk, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said suddenly, making John sit up even straighter as he would have done when being addressed by a sergeant. "You know full well the order of business that we will be discussing so let's just get straight to that. I am not particularly happy with you, to be frank, Doctor. Abandoning my brother so easily didn't really put up much of a fight did you?" he pressed on in spite of the stung and indignant expression on the other's face. "Nonetheless, you can make up for that today. I will be blunt—I think Sherlock is using again."

John was so thunderstruck by the statement that he even dared to be so foolish and ask what he meant by using. It didn't take long for it to really hit him and his posture sagged. He didn't want to look so visibly affected by the news, but right at that moment he didn't care if he looked the most stunned and dismayed living creature on the planet. Sherlock was back on drugs. John did not bother to attend to the 'think' segment of Mycroft's sentence, because Mycroft was rarely ever wrong and John wasn't about to start questioning him now, especially not on a subject that was obviously so important. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Sherlock would do that, and he felt a terrific pang of guilt.

"What do you want me to do?" John hoarsely inquired once he found the ability to talk again.

"I want you to pay a visit to someone who I have right to believe is the one supplying my brother with drugs," Mycroft explained, leaning over and pushing a photograph that he had recovered from his coat across the desk surface for the doctor to take and look at. "I want you to find out if it is him...to have him arrested and then—then we can work on Sherlock."

John, prior to the conversation, probably would have argued against the 'we' part of that, but that fight in him against being the one to pick up the pieces and to fix the consulting detective, had died away. He took the photograph and his brow furrowed. He recognised the man in the picture, and it wasn't a face he was at all pleased to see again. Raz, the street artist, was smirking at him in it, and John ground his teeth together.

"I know him," he said stiffly. "Sherlock took me to him once, for advice on the Black Lotus case." He made a scoffing sound and shook his head. "The little bastard gave me an ASBO. What makes you think it's him?"

"He used to deal to Sherlock before," Mycroft informed him gravely. "A couple of years back. His older brother was a drug dealer, and to avoid my scent Sherlock went through the younger brother to get hold of the drugs he wanted. I have evidence that Sherlock has been in contact with this 'Raz' quite a lot recently, and no one else. Quite careless of him, but then again, he always did thrive on the risk of getting caught."

John nodded in acknowledgment because, once again, he found himself speechless and could only glare at the photograph in his hand. He remembered the genuine shock he had felt upon discovering that his flatmate had once been a junkie. Before Sherlock, John hated all kinds of substance abusers, including his alcoholic of a sister, Harry, and it had set him beside himself when he'd found out that someone as brilliant as Sherlock could have once been something so—so shameful. John could hardly accept it as the truth, even when those pale, intelligent eyes had looked deep into his own and confessed that he was guilty. Still, John had difficulty accepting it, but it now seemed so wickedly real.

"On the back of the photograph," Mycroft added after an elongated silence. "Is an address. I want you to go there and see if you can find anything out."

John pursed his lips. "Alright," he agreed. "I will do that first thing tomorrow."

Mycroft faltered for an instant, and looked as though he was about to argue, but then dropped it. John supposed it was because he considered himself lucky that he had consented to help him at all. The older Holmes brother looked so tired as he stood there, applying his coat, and mumbling something about John watching the roads due to the rain outside.

"I trust you, John," Mycroft said abruptly right as he drifted slowly towards the door, keeping his back to the doctor. "Please don't betray that trust. Do all you can for my brother? Because, despite what you think," he paused and turned to look at him. "He would do the same for you in a heartbeat. And that is a rare and special fact." Then he swiftly exited, closing the door behind him.

John sat there for a while longer, not sure what to do with himself now. That meeting had taken four minutes exactly, and he was right on time to head out and meet Sarah in the waiting room. He contemplated mentioning Mycroft's visit but, for a reason unknown to him, he chose not to and simply clasped her hand in his own and asked her about her day as they headed outside. Sure enough, it was raining.

**[SH]**

Mrs Hudson had seemingly assigned herself the duty of checking up on Sherlock every five minutes and keeping him company. Lestrade had sent him home and had banned him from coming into the station for a week until he rested himself up, because he 'fainted'. Sherlock wouldn't have called it 'fainting' but apparently falling over and napping for a few minutes on the floor was called that these days.

It had been two days since Erica Marshall and there had been no word from Moriarty as of yet...

"Mrs Hudson, please I—I could really do with some peace and quiet," Sherlock beseeched the landlady, trying to sound as gentle and calm as possible even though he really just wanted to scream; scream loud enough that everyone would deem him insane and lock him away so he could finally be alone.

"Oh I see," Mrs Hudson said, pressing her index finger to her jam-red lips. "You won't hear a peep from me dear. I'll just tidy up the place a bit."

Sherlock, who was lying sprawled out on the settee, kicked out his feet and squirmed in frustration the second she scuttled off to the kitchen out of sight. It was as if he was ready to explode, desperate to in fact, and everyone suddenly clustered around him preventing him from doing so, so it just swelled and grew inside of him. It was unbearable. Before, people would do their best to put as great a distance as they could between themselves at him, particularly throughout his adolescence. Back then, he desired the company. Now he detested it, and for some reason, people saw this as an invite to overcrowd him.

Still, looking on the bright side, Mycroft hadn't paid a visit since the pill incident when he'd thought he had been attempting suicide. That felt like years ago. It felt even longer since he'd last saw John. He felt that familiar, wretched tug of his heart that he felt whenever his minds crept towards his former friend and flatmate, and he subconsciously touched his ribcage. The bones there were still, at times, tender but they were virtually fixed by now. Sometimes Sherlock wondered if the ache he felt there from time to time was because he was remembering the way John had touched him in an attempt to ease his pain, but he would angrily knock this theory aside and do all he could to block it out again.

Sherlock stretched his legs and arched his back, closing his eyes. The only thing he could do now was wait until Mrs Hudson left so he could take his 'medicine' to distract himself. He began by focusing on Moriarty and pondering on what the second part of the puzzle would entail and what sort of dramatic end it all would meet, and then, for some reason, that trail of thought evaporated briskly. It was replaced by thoughts of John again, and Sherlock curled his long fingers into his palm in annoyance, pounding one of them down onto the cushions.

There came a piercing clatter and smashing sound from the kitchen, followed by a high-pitched squeak and "Oh dear" from Mrs Hudson.

"Oh dear," she repeated, hovering in the doorway as if torn between tidying up the mess she'd left and ensuring Sherlock knew how sorry she was. "Sherlock, dear, I'm so sorry..."

Sherlock heaved a sigh that fell from his body like a great weight and he got to his feet, not daring to even glimpse into the abused room in fear he'd lose his temper. He pulled on his coat and wound his scarf around his throat, tuning out of the nonsensical ramblings coming from his landlady.

"Don't worry about it too much, Mrs Hudson," he assured her unconvincingly. "Could you please try to tidy up the mess—actually no, don't. I'll see to it when I get back." He tossed her a faint smile. "You are my landlady after all, not my housekeeper."

"Are y—where are you going?" Mrs Hudson looked at a loss, wringing her hands with a distraught expression on her face.

"Just for a walk," Sherlock replied, smoothing out his clothing as he headed out the door. "Just need some clean air, won't be long."

**[SH]**

Sarah had a sort of obsession about going out every Friday evening for a meal, even when money wasn't exactly ripe in their pockets. She'd told John that her father used to take her out for dinner every Friday as a sort of tradition, and that she hadn't missed one since she was a little girl. John wasn't entirely thrilled about it all, but he grasped the importance of such a thing to his girlfriend and so obliged without fuss.

After his meeting with Mycroft, John had returned 'home' with Sarah to get freshened up and then they were to head out to eat. He tended to wear the same black jumper over the same plaid shirt with the jeans, so he was, more often than not, waiting around for a while for Sarah to select her outfit that she aimed to be different from the previous week and the week before that. John sat there on the sofa, only half-focusing on the news when the story of Erica Marshall came on. His ears pricked when he'd heard that the parents had been faking their daughter's abduction to earn money from the donations, and he fleetingly contemplated on whether a certain consulting detective had helped the authorities figure that out. John shook it off and changed channel.

Half an hour later, he and Sarah were walking hand in hand down the street, still debating on what restaurant to go to. All the ones she suggested, he disliked due to either the prices or the location. He wanted somewhere cheap and close to 'home', but he didn't put it like that when Sarah asked why he didn't want to go to a certain restaurant a bit further on. It was still raining, in fact, it had gotten heavier, and she was becoming impatient and irritable when they hadn't agreed on one and had to stop to discuss it properly.

"I hate that place," John said, keeping his voice down so they avoided curious eavesdroppers. "It's really overpriced."

Sarah puffed out her cheeks. "You can't say no to something if you don't have a better idea of where to go."

It was at that moment, when John had turned to look away from her glare, that he saw Sherlock. The consulting detective was on the other side of the road, standing stock-still and looking directly at him. John went rigid and all the colour and heat flooded away from his face leaving him feeling cold. He couldn't get Mycroft's words out of his head: _**I think Sherlock is using again**_. Sherlock's appearance had changed, that was for sure. He was the thinnest John had ever seen him, like the wind itself was too thick and would cut him in two. John couldn't put his finger on the rest of it, he just knew that there was something dramatically different about him and it actually winded him.

"Hold on a sec," John said gently to Sarah, already breaking away from her to start crossing the road.

Sherlock was visibly nervous about being approached by John, as he lowered his head as if to shield himself. John's heart was pounding in his chest, painfully in fact, and he didn't care if Sarah was pissed off at him, he didn't care if he was going to be made to sleep on the sofa or the lie low again. He couldn't care less right then. It felt like crossing the ocean rather than crossing a road, it seemed to take forever for the two men to come face to face.

John fell easily back into doctor mode and noted the dark bruise on Sherlock's cheek, and even went to reach out to study it before remembering himself and, with difficulty, kept both hands at his sides.

"What happened to your face?" he asked, forgetting to even offer an awkward greeting.

Something touched Sherlock's features then, and John recognised it instantly as amusement. "Angry father," he answered, his baritone rolling over John's eardrums nostalgically. "What happened to your leg?"

John frowned. "What's wrong with my leg?"

"You were limping when you were walking with Sarah," Sherlock observed. "But when you started to walk over towards me, it went."

John would have been surprised if it had happened another time, when Sherlock wasn't there, but because that was the case, he wasn't. Memories of that first entire day together, running after that cab like a team that had been assembled without uttering a single word, burned in his skull and, for the first time in a really long while, the dull throb in his leg was gone.

There was too much to be said in such a short space of time that they had right then. John had never planned on running into Sherlock again, not even after talking to Mycroft, otherwise he would have somewhat prepared something to say. Maybe apologise for leaving, maybe even offer to move back into 221b...that was what he wanted truthfully. Even though he knew this, for some reason he couldn't say it. Not even to that face that he had once trusted with his life.

"You have to go," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "Sarah's waiting."

John didn't even glance over his shoulder at her. "She doesn't mind," he choked out.

"You know she does," Sherlock said, a knowingness and understanding reflecting in his eyes. "It's good to see you, John." He turned on his heel and started to walk away at his uncompromising pace that he shared with no one.

John wanted to call after him, ask him to stop, ask him to join them for dinner, even ask him to keep in contact, yet he did not find it within himself to do so.

**[SH]**

After profusely apologising and promising a variety of ways to make it up to her, John managed to persuade Sarah to let him have the day off without revealing the true purpose behind it. He claimed his leg was really playing him up, possibly due to the gloomy weather they'd had recently. She wasn't entirely pleased with it, as a lot of people at work were muttering that she let him get away with a lot more because of their relationship and it made her feel unprofessional even though such accusations were false. In fact, she was harder on John than anyone else just to ensure that her co-workers didn't get that idea, but it appeared all her efforts were in vain.

John feigned sleep as his girlfriend set about getting ready for work the next morning, but he hadn't really slept at all the entire night. He kept thinking about Sherlock. When he first left Baker Street, the consulting detective was all he could think about, and then over time, it transitioned into a range of things: work, Sarah, crappy telly, and so on. In the space of one day, Sherlock Holmes once again claimed ownership of his train of thought.

Sarah left the house at quarter to eight, and John got up exactly two minutes after the door closed to make sure she hadn't forgotten something and would come back. At twenty past, he was heading out himself, jogging out onto the street to do his best to get out of the pouring rain to hail a cab.

It took some time for the driver to actually decipher the scrawl on the back of the photograph, and when he did work it out he quirked an eyebrow and asked if John was sure he wanted to go there. John assured him that he did despite the twist in his stomach and the anxiety flaring inside of him. He soon saw why the driver had made sure with him because they came to a part of London that John had never seen before and would have been quite content with not seeing it at all throughout his life.

"I won't be long," John said as they pulled up outside a small, shabby house. "Could you wait here for a bit?"

The cabby was reluctant, but was persuaded once John agreed to pay him extra; he locked his doors once the doctor stepped out. Raz's house was a thin building, the front garden littered with rubbish. A collection of bin bags lined the front of it, some that were torn and spilling some of their rotten contents out onto the ground, and one of the front windows was splintered, looking about ready to fall in on itself at any moment. John opened the front gate that groaned as if in pain as he did so, and headed straight for the front door.

He knew it wasn't exactly 'spy-like' of him to head in through the front door, but he wasn't sure why he had been sent at all. He couldn't really do anything in broad daylight, and he was only really asking Raz a question, right? John knocked the door and pushed the doorbell, that turned out not to be working, and stood there for a good few minutes, knocking again every now and then. He felt a sliver of relief when the door wasn't answered, which was accompanied by disappointment. How was he going to explain to Mycroft that he had tried but no one was in so he left it? No that wouldn't suit the older Holmes sibling at all.

He wasn't keen on the idea, but he had to break in, meaning he also had to send the cabby away. John retraced his steps and tapped the window, which the driver rolled down, peering out at him with squinting eyes.

"You can go now," John told him, handing over the notes that he owed him.

The driver looked perplexed but didn't argue once the money was given. "You sure?" he checked. "Looks like no one's in."

"Oh they are," John lied. "My friend's just in the shower, he'll be down in a bit to let me in."

The taxi pulled off and left John feeling very alone and vulnerable. He made his way up the thin garden path a second time, and went to check the back. Just as he went to do so—

"Can I help you?"

John swung around, hand dramatically flying to his chest as if to restrain his own heart from jolting out of his chest, and saw a middle aged woman standing in front of him. She was a spidery thin lady with her greying hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she was dressed in a nightgown and slippers.

"Oh sorry about that," John turned bright red. "I tried knocking and I was just—er—yeah."

"Who are you?" she asked in her raspy voice.

"John Watson," he answered, holding out a hand to shake hers. "I came to see Raz?"

The woman blinked confusedly when he said this, and for a split second, he thought he had come to the wrong address.

"You mean Robert?" she said.

"Sorry, I only know his nickname," John admitted sheepishly. "You see, we met once through a—friend of mine. My friend asked me to come see him today to talk about something. Is he in right now?"

She seemed to deflate. "Robert hasn't been home for a few months now," she informed him quietly.

"Oh right, where is he?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. We had a bit of a tiff, and he just packed his things and went. He could be living with his brother or his dad."

"Could I have those addresses?"

The woman, for the first time, looked suspicious. "Why? What business have you got with a kid like Robert?"

"I-it's not really my business, it's my friend's," John stammered, flushing.

"Well, I can give you his brother's address, but Scotland's a bit out of your way really to go check if he's with his father," she said. "I'll just pop in to get a pen and paper. Be out in a tick."

John hovered on the doorstep, not really sure if he had been invited inside and wasn't about to go marching in after her. It wasn't long before she appeared again, handing out a piece of ratty looking paper with a scribbled address on it.

"Thanks," John said, holding it up and smiling at her. He made to make his way out of the garden when she called his name.

"Mr. Watson," she said. "Whatever business you have with my son, make sure to tell him to come back home and that I'm sorry."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?" John inquired, not intending to sound rude or anything, just purely interested.

"No way of contacting him," she sighed. "He lost his phone. That's what the argument was over."

John nodded and promised to tell Raz or rather Robert just that if and when he saw him. He would text Mycroft about Raz moving to live with his brother or his dad as soon as he was in a taxi on the way back to Sarah's. At least his visit wasn't completely a waste of his time. That would be an adventure for another day, he thought. All he wanted to do now was lie back and get some sleep because he could hardly keep his eyes open.

**[SH]**

Mycroft was sitting in his office late that night. Not because he was required for any extra work or a meeting or anything like that, in fact it had been a sort of mellow day compared to what was the norm for him. He was busy glancing over some photographs that he'd found in his desk drawer. He used to plant them on his desk proudly in beautiful frames, but he started to hide them after Sherlock had paid a visit and had openly mocked him for putting them there.

"You don't have to prove to yourself you're normal, Mycroft," Sherlock had remarked. "By copying all the other bastards you work with and cluttering up your desk with pictures of so-called loved ones. It just eats up all your space in the end, and to do what? To prove that you have a life, that you are loved, outside of your office. It's pathetic is what it is."

Mycroft had taken them out of the frames and had stuffed them into his drawer after that conversation. He liked having them at hand just to pour his gaze over whenever things got lonely or boring. His favourite was one of himself and Sherlock, reluctantly standing side by side and not even attempting to look cheerful or like they even loved one another. It had been taken by Mummy, who often complained she never had enough photos of her two boys together. There was no occasion, no birthday, graduation, or anything like that. Just the brothers glaring into the camera, despising those few seconds when they'd actually have to be close to one another. Sherlock had been eighteen, and Mycroft twenty-five; Mycroft remembered it being taken a couple of months before Sherlock left for university.

Mycroft would have hated the picture if it hadn't been for Sherlock being there, because for one, it had been taken right at the start of his diet so he looked goddamn awful in it, and two, it was one of the few photographs he had of Sherlock because his sibling loathed getting his picture taken. He would always turn his head away if a camera was even pointed in his direction, would cover his face, or knock the camera out of the offender's hand if they dared get close enough. For one reason or another, that time Sherlock just allowed it. Mycroft couldn't help but think that that was what a time before his younger brother had started drugs.

It made him sad to think that right then, he had no idea of what was to happen to Sherlock, what drastic changes were to occur in his life. Back then, he was probably just thankful that his brother was leaving home and would stop drugging their family dog and would stop sneakily cutting off chunks of Mycroft's hair in the middle of the night for supposed 'experiments'.

Sherlock had never been precisely normal. Then again, how could he be? They didn't exactly lead normal lives, not even when they were children. Mycroft liked to think he himself turned out moderately ordinary, yet he knew that wasn't the case really. Sherlock was always going to be more vulnerable, more naive, and more curious—he was _**so**_ self-destructive. He had been from a young age. He wanted to destroy any limitations that he may have, and it seemed controlling an addiction was one of them. In reality, the addiction controlled him and it still did, perhaps even more so.

**TBC**


	8. Seven: Needing Someone or Anyone

**Jodi2011****:** _My reasoning behind him having John go to the drug dealer's house is that Mycroft doesn't trust anyone else with the information. He trusts John because John seemed to be making Sherlock better, and he partially blames him for Sherlock's relapse, and sees it as a way to get John back at Baker Street. Also, Mycroft wouldn't want to get anyone else involved because it may end up with Sherlock's arrest and it would ruin everyone else's trust in him. Mycroft and Sherlock may argue, but he doesn't want to ruin his career. That's my reasoning behind it, so I hope that helps you understand it a bit more. _

_**This chapter took a while to write; I had two assignments to write at the same time for university and I only just finished with one day to go. The only Sherlock-esque thing that has crossed my mind lately was because one of my texts was written by a woman named Janet Holmes and in her book, she mentions 'Elementary, my dear Watson'. I admit, I doodled in the book with an arrow to it saying 'SHERLOCK!' with a heart next to it. So if you get that book, you know the culprit. **_

_**If you have any further inquiries, please leave a review or leave me a message and I will do my best to explain my reasoning to you. Thank you for reviewing, please continue to do so! I want to know if I'm doing things right or wrong, if you're enjoying it or not, if I should continue it or what so please just do drop a review every now and again. Thank you. **_

He was running a fever, it was as if the heat of his skin was radiating inside of his head leaving his brain sweltering and stifled. He kept having to gulp down a generous amount of oxygen through his mouth because his lungs seemed starved and his vision would become foggy if he didn't do so. The pills in his stomach seem to twist and convulse in pain and all he could do to ease the nausea, was tuck his long legs up into his chest, hold them there, and squeeze his eyes shut to pretend that no such thing was happening to him.

Sherlock had taken three of those damned pills and his body was trying to reject them, kicking them out as they disagreed and caused discomfort to the rest of his body. He couldn't help but curse his system for being so bloody selfish, not allowing him one thing that was sure to make him feel better. His day had been repulsive, and all he'd wanted to do was forget...

It all started with the body of a recently deceased postman; it looked like a suicide to the naked, ignorant eye, but Lestrade, unconvinced, had called upon a keener pair of eyes to take a second look.

Nathan Robinson, forty-six-years-old, father of five, recently divorced, reported anger issues, manic depressive, strong smell of mint around the mouth so trying to mask a smell (drugs or alcohol perhaps), multiple small cuts on his palms and wrists—

"Just tell me, is it a suicide or what?" Lestrade asked, disrupting his train of thought.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm still working it out," he snapped. "Stop interrupting me and give me time!"

"Fair enough but you've been looking at him blankly for about twenty minutes," Lestrade pointed out, clearly uncomfortable as he lowered his tone so to keep it between the two of them. "Usually takes you less than five to at least give me some feedback."

"The signs point to suicide," Sherlock reported flatly, studying the body once again. "But it's too obvious. It's almost too perfect. The small cuts on his wrist indicate hesitation wounds, which are usually made when one is testing themselves to see if they could go through with it. Then again, this would mean that that method was the one he was leaning against yet he didn't die due to blood loss, there aren't any wounds grave enough upon his wrist to suggest that."

"He was hanging," Anderson said, his voice grating against Sherlock's eardrums. "He hung himself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, well done, Anderson, your methods of deduction have greatly improved now you remembered to keep your eyes on the scene of the crime rather than on Donavon's _**backside**_—"

There was the sound of movement behind him and Sherlock knew without glancing that Lestrade had to, once again, step in to prevent anything from happening. The detective inspector was now telling Anderson to go cool off elsewhere and to act like a professional, and apparently Anderson did as he was told albeit reluctantly.

"What's your point, Sherlock?" Lestrade said as if there had been no interruption.

Sherlock exhaled loudly in exasperation. "This man didn't commit suicide. The method he would have used is different than the one we found him in. Someone made it look like a suicide, suffocated him with the rope perhaps, and then hung him up."

There was a momentary pause as what he'd just said sunk in. Sherlock got to his feet, pinching his lips tightly together to silence the wince from escaping. He wasn't entirely sure what the matter with him was. His head felt as if there was a pin embedded in the crown of his skull, forming a great crack in the bone and he wanted nothing more than for a hammer to be brought down on it so to put an end to it all. He hadn't taken anything for a good few hours and that always gave him the shakes, similar to the kind that other people get after not eating for a long amount of time. Sherlock gingerly touched his temple, rubbing it with his fingertips in a soothing circular motion as if to loosen the bunched knots of his brain.

"Anything else?" Lestrade asked.

"What else do you want?" Sherlock bit out, not turning around. "You wanted to know if it was a suicide, and I'm telling you it's not. There are far too many bruises around the throat, especially around the back of the neck, for it to have been a suicide. Someone strangled him with the rope!"

"Oi," Lestrade stepped forward, taking the other's shoulder and twisting him around sharply. The movement was too brisk, and for a split second, Sherlock wondered if he would sink to his knees in a faint. To his amazement, he managed to maintain his balance though that may have been due to the detective inspector gripping his shoulder tightly. "Don't take that tone with me alright? I'm fed up with your bloody attitude. It was foul to begin with but now it's just downright—downright putrid!"

"Putrid?" Sherlock echoed in a slur. "That's a rather big word for you there." It was as if his numb lips were moving on their own accord, and he couldn't prevent the words from dripping from his tongue like venom.

Lestrade was incredibly flushed, and a vein stood out on his forehead. "Don't push me, Sherlock. Not today."

The two men considered each other steadily, and not a single word was exchanged though a mute apology was acknowledged and accepted and they pulled apart as if nothing had occurred.

"Oh God," Anderson muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Lestrade turned on him now. "Oh now what, Anderson?" he demanded. "Got a problem you want to share with the rest of the group?"

Anderson was expected to shy away from such a tone, but instead he rose to it, striding towards his superior with such arrogance and determination it took even Sherlock aback.

"He gets away with _everything_," Anderson hissed, eyes darting from Lestrade to the consulting detective. "He shows respect to no one and everyone just lets him do whatever he wants because he's—he's—"

"Right about everything?" Sherlock offered. "More intelligent in every single aspect than all of you put together?"

Anderson clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you don't hear all of that."

"I hear it alright, Anderson," Lestrade said. "Let me handle it, okay?"

"That's the thing though," Anderson insisted. "You don't handle it. At all." He threw his hands up in the air incredulously. "He could quite literally shout abuse right down your ear and you'd still be just as oblivious."

"Maybe you need to cool off," Lestrade said tightly. "Take a few personal days off."

Anderson hesitated but then nodded. "Fine," he breathed, and went to walk off.

Sherlock couldn't resist it. It was burning at the base of his tongue and he regarded what he was about to say, decided it would do no good, but still said it. "Maybe you need to set him some homework too, Lestrade. Make sure it's Donovan though, it's the only thing _he does_ around here!"

No one who was witnessing the scene really expected what happened next, and no one reacted until Sherlock Holmes was lying with his back on the floor with Anderson standing over him who had Lestrade with his arms hooked in his, trying to tear him away from the consulting detective, hollering that they were supposed to be acting professionally. Lestrade shoved Anderson aside and, as soon as he was far enough away from Sherlock, stabbed a finger into his chest, hard, as he told him darkly to get out of his sight and that he was suspended for two weeks.

Sherlock had sat up by the time Lestrade had turned back to him, and the detective inspector couldn't help but feel sorry for the sod despite knowing full well he deserved exactly what he'd got. He just looked so fragile and fractured, sitting there on the ground with a split lip that accompanied his bruised cheek quite well. Lestrade approached him, taking a packet of tissues from his pocket, and held them out. Sherlock gratefully took them, glancing around to see that a lot of the team had dispersed, save a few curious onlookers that looked caught between being fascinated and sympathetic. Sherlock heaved a sigh, dabbing his mouth that was now dribbling blood.

"I'm getting major déjà vu right now," Lestrade remarked teasingly, crouching in front of the other man. "Two people lash out at you in less than a month? Either they're getting even more short-tempered or you're just becoming completely unbearable."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I asked for that," he admitted quietly. "But to be honest, I couldn't help myself."

Lestrade could not help but smile. "Right...you rarely can." Then he switched to a more serious note. "You don't seem yourself lately. You seem really—tangled. Like you're just one—big—knot and the more you try to untangle yourself the more tangled you get and you get more frustrated and throw a fit..."

"You really are a creative man, Greg," Sherlock commented. He hardly ever referred to him by his first name, and it surprised Lestrade, yet confused him. "I got the tangled concept around five sentences back. Don't worry, I'll fix it."

"Will you, now? You can't even fix yourself a dinner never mind the bloody mess you're in lately."

Sherlock paused, and made to get up to his feet. Much to his humiliation, he fell forwards, saved only by the set of firm hands that grasped him.

"Steady on," Lestrade grumbled.

Sherlock shrugged off his hold, his cheeks aflame, and was able to stand up straight with very little aid. "I'm going to head home now," he said shortly.

Lestrade nodded. "That'd be best," he agreed. "Take care of yourself. Need any help just give us a ring, yeah?"

Sherlock answered with a brisk nod and walked off.

The incident with Anderson had shook him up for certain, but that wasn't why he was now curled up in a foetal position with a raging temperature and a trembling form. No, that wasn't why.

Sherlock had walked back to Baker Street, only losing his balance once and he'd concealed it well by pretending to bend down to tie his laces. He found, to his astonishment, that he was smirking as he thought about what had just happened to him. Anderson losing his rag with him was something unexpected and so it thrilled him. At the same time, however, it had unnerved him. He'd always felt safe, saying whatever he wanted just to see Anderson's smug composure collapse and crumble miserably, because Lestrade acted like a shield between them. Now even that shield, that guard, was weakening and Sherlock understood entirely that it was because he was becoming, in Lestrade's own words, unbearable.

Sherlock was standing on his doorstep, digging his hands into his pockets, searching for his keys. His fingertips felt so numb and thick with skin they couldn't feel a thing, not even the chill of the metal in his coat pocket. When he did manage to grasp them, they fell with a shrill clatter on the floor. Swearing under his breath, Sherlock bent to collect them when a pair of hands got there before him. Sherlock found that he was unusually out of breath and his breaths, raspy and shallow, were very loud in his ears. Lifting his pale eyes, they greeted those of John Watson.

"Sherlock, you okay? You don't look so good," John asked, concern blatant in his voice as he reached out to help him straighten up.

Sherlock didn't even consider wondering as to why the doctor was there, in fact for a moment he forgot that he'd left Baker Street at all. "I'm fine," he replied thickly. "I just need to lie down for a second."

"Let's get you inside," John said, supporting the consulting detective as he made to unlock the door. "Since when did Mrs Hudson start locking it anyway?"

"Since Moriarty happened," Sherlock made a scoffing sound. "Funny—you'd have thought she'd have been glad to get rid of me. I'm the worst tenant she's ever had..."

John couldn't ignore the bitterness in that last part, and quirked an eyebrow at it, yet bit his tongue. He didn't think that this would be what he was going to be doing when he came over. He expected them to be stiffly conversing on the doorstep, but instead he was half carrying him up the stairs and making a series of mental notes over his condition. It had taken a lot of self-persuading on John's part that morning to get him to pluck up the courage to even _come_ to Baker Street. He hadn't told Sarah about it; she probably would have made a long list as to why it would be a bad idea for John to turn up uninvited and just act as if nothing had happened. It was something John wanted to do though, and he didn't care if she found out and was pissed.

John stood in the kitchen, swilling a tall glass under the tap that looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in a very long time, and then filled it up with water. Every now and then, he glimpsed over his shoulder to check on Sherlock who was lying with his back to him on the sofa, legs tucked up neatly underneath him, body noticeably trembling. John tried to reassemble his medical mind, kick it into action, but his brain was too busy being anxious and questioning what he was going to do next to even focus on something that was usually a second nature to him.

He held out the glass once it was full to the consulting detective, who didn't accept it for a long time. John held it out patiently, until Sherlock realised it was being offered to him, half sat up, and took it. Then John sat down in the armchair closest to the sofa, clasping his hands together as he waited. Waited for what? Even he wasn't sure, but he knew that he couldn't begin what was sure to be an awkward conversation. That was up to Sherlock, and it didn't matter if it took hours for him to conjure any words at all to speak, John would, without question, wait.

Sherlock seemed to look at John for the first time, _**really **_look, and he set the glass down on coffee table, running his fingers through his curls.

"John—" he started, and then cast his gaze down, focusing solely on his lap. There was an elongated pause and he bit his abused bottom lip hard. "I'm sorry about that."

John pursed his lips. Wasn't exactly what he'd wanted but he accepted it either way. "Not a problem," he said quietly. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock forced a twitch in the corner of his mouth. "Yes, much," he lied, though it felt like that aforementioned pin in his skull had been twisted around slowly, grinding and pulsing with a cold pain. "I haven't eaten much lately. I just got a bit faint, that's all."

"Want me to make you something?" John offered feebly. When Sherlock declined, ten times more polite than usual, he nodded and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Listen, Sherlock—I came over to—to invite you to Sarah's birthday party this weekend."

Sarah's birthday was on Friday, and to celebrate he'd arranged for her a small get together of friends on the Saturday. He'd gone through her phone book, hounded people at the clinic, and contacted her family, inviting everyone who she would supposedly want over. He honestly had no clue whether she'd be pleased to see a majority of them, but nonetheless it was something. John had thought to invite a few of his friends too, unless he wanted to stand in a room full of people he didn't really know and feel more alone than ever. However, the only person he could think about was Sherlock. John had put it off and put it off, inviting Lestrade, Mike and a couple of other acquaintances of his, from work and from Bart's, but in the end the only person, he really wanted there was the arguably sociopathic detective.

Sherlock studied John for a second, and deduced quickly that this was a serious offer. He felt the tightness in his chest again and the chill in his stomach. He couldn't identify precisely what he was feeling; it was a vast range of emotions, most of which he'd never had to deal with before, and facing them now by himself was a tall order. Swallowing hard, Sherlock looked away in discomfort.

"Maybe," was his answer.

That was bizarrely enough for John. It wasn't a flat out no and it wasn't a smothering, draining interrogation concerning his reasons behind what he was doing. It was just a normal and simple, maybe, and John welcomed it eagerly. He was to sit in 221b Baker Street only for a few minutes longer, which had now collapsed into utter silence. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he drew it out to see Sarah had text him asking where he was. John put it hastily away and got to his feet.

"You know my number if you need me," John said. "Just, give me a call, any time, if you need any help or if you feel—_faint_ again."

Sherlock tilted his gaze upwards to greet John's. "I know," was his short reply. John made to leave when Sherlock added; "Your cane. You don't need it at all now do you?"

John couldn't deny the smile from spreading across his face. He turned back around to face the consulting detective, to see he had sat upright, peering up at him with a prying inquisitiveness that boasted that it already knew the answer.

"It aches from time to time," John said. "But no, I don't need my cane anymore."

Sherlock seemed satisfied with this and relaxed. John watched him for a couple of minutes more, and then saw himself out, throwing a hasty goodbye over his shoulder as he did so. His phone vibrated again once he was outside and he looked at the screen, slightly disappointed that it wasn't from Sherlock but from Mycroft.

_**He isn't with his brother, so he must be with his father.  
>It can't be he who is supplying Sherlock with drugs.<br>MH**_

John read this as it meant Sherlock wasn't on drugs at all and his muscles went lax, even though he had no clue they were even tensed at all. He glimpsed up at the window of 221b and then hailed a taxi. Up in the window, Sherlock watched him until he'd climbed inside a vehicle and sped off.

**[SH]**

That was how the three little pills had wound up in his stomach, and Sherlock lay on the sofa, his sweat that had clung to his clothes cold against his shivering flesh. He thought he was going to be sick the way everything seemed to be vibrating around him. Nothing seemed still, not even the furniture upon which he lay; it seemed to sway as if waltzing on the sea, and he clasped both hands over his swollen, sore eyes, grimacing. It was the worst he'd ever felt in his life, and it felt as though the very experience was ripping off his skin and separating his muscles and splintering his bones.

Staggering and swaying, Sherlock stumbled over to the toilet, sinking to his knees next to it. He had scarcely enough strength to lift the seat, and hovered his head over it, dry heaving and coughing, trying desperately to rid his body of the drug that had caused him so much hurt. His eyes watered and this throat felt worn out, but nothing he did would reward him with allowing him to empty his stomach's content. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he pulled out his phone and dialled a number.

"Hello?"

That voice rolled soothingly over him and he felt his body sag in relief. Sherlock couldn't speak for an instant, as he was so overwhelmed with what he was feeling just from hearing John's bewildered tone over the phone. It confused him. Even as a child, when he had fallen over and was howling in pain, he'd never felt so calmed by the mere voice of someone before. No matter what nightmare had plagued him, no matter how hard he cried, no matter how many times he'd dared to let someone in—never had anyone made him feel like that and it was like that sweet moment before sleep claims you. You are unaware it is happening, it just does, and once it takes you, you are blissfully ignorant to everything else happening around you.

John frowned on the other end. "Hello?" he checked the number but didn't recognise it immediately. "Hello? Who is this? Who's calling?"

Sherlock attempted to answer but then he heard someone else.

"John? Who is it?"

Unmistakably Sarah. Sherlock's mouth, which had been open for a while like a door awaiting the words to hurry on out, eased shut and he closed his eyes, his heart feeling like it was ensnared in a cruel, piercing vice. His head dropped an inch and he opened his eyes slightly, amazed to find his vision blurry. He could imagine her, with her arm draped around John's shoulders, somewhat annoyed that their dull movie or dull conversation had been interrupted.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" John said suddenly, catching the consulting detective off-guard. "Are you alright? What's happened?"

Sherlock slowly dragged the phone away from his own ear, dropping his arm down to his side. John's tinny voice continued to ask questions, and Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence.

For another hour, his phone continued to ring and ring as John attempted to contact him again. Sherlock could hear his phone from his bedroom as he'd left it in the bathroom. He didn't make any move to answer it, and he didn't intend to. Instead, he lay there on his back, knowing that any moment John would give up. John would give up on trying to contact him, John would give up and go back to whatever dull boring life he was leading with Sarah. It was the seventh attempt, and after that final ring stole the air of 221b, all was silent. Sherlock's heart sank so low he wondered if he'd ever be able to reclaim it from the depths to which it had descended.

For some absurd reason, John's turning up in Baker Street had rattled his constricted and narrow world. It frightened Sherlock to think that this was how it was to be now; John would only ever pay rare visits, and he wouldn't return to live with him again. Sherlock wondered how long John would bother keeping in contact with a man who is always caught up in some case or lazing around in his flat getting high as a kite. Sherlock was partially glad that John was now coming back into his life, but he was also partially distraught that now he would have to lose John all over again, only this time it would be a much more slower and painful process. Sherlock would lose John to normality; to Sarah, to marriage, to children perhaps, to a new job, to new friends, to a new life in total. Sherlock would remain the same, frozen in the same sorry state, never progressing, never changing. There was only so much John Watson would be able to stand, only so much spare time he could offer him.

Sherlock had hopelessly clung to the hope that the doctor would return. Now that hope was wilting, turning brown and ugly, recognisable, and Sherlock couldn't help but ask himself why he had even bothered in the first place...

**TBC**


	9. Eight: I Swear I Promise

_**Thank you for the reviews! They meant a lot to me, and I hope this chapter does not disappoint. Things are starting to get serious now and it's an absolute pleasure to write. **_

"Surely it can wait till morning, John!" Sarah insisted with blatant exasperation, watching as her boyfriend changed hastily out of his lounging clothes into something a little more suited for heading out. She couldn't restrain her aggravation; she had always tried to be supportive but there was only so much she could take.

John scarcely looked at her as he shrugged on his jacket. "Sorry Sarah, but I have to check on him."

"Why though, John?" she demanded, losing her composure and, finally, earning his full attention. "You two haven't spoken in—and all he has to do is snap his fingers and you go running, is that it? Is that how it's going to be now? Just like how it was before?"

John honestly didn't know. One moment, he was telling himself he didn't care, that Sherlock was now amputated from his life and that he could now try to settle down into his approaching middle age casually and—ordinarily. The next, he's terrified. Terrified that Sherlock was in danger, and wanting to do anything to bring him back to the way he used to be, to be the one he relied one again, be the one he turned to...not drugs, not anything or anyone else. John wanted it to be him that Sherlock wanted as well as needed. As selfish as that may have sounded, he did not pay it much heed because it was the truth. How could he possibly put that into words to Sarah? He wondered how all that sounded aloud. Probably questionable and strange...

"John, I'm sure it can wait until the morning," Sarah breathed, resuming her placid and rational demeanour. She climbed off the sofa and approached him slowly, settling her hands against his chest. Her sweet eyes greeted his warmly and they remained open as she pressed her lips against his chastely. "If he calls again, I give you my word you can go and I won't mind. If he comes over, I will be more than happy to let him sleep on the lie low. I swear it—but he may have dialled the wrong number."

A worm of doubt squirmed uneasily in John's stomach when she said this. Maybe Sherlock had just called the wrong number. That was quite unlikely and sounded more like a feeble assumption than an actual solid theory. He was aware of this, and yet, he didn't feel the surging urgency to pull away from her and head out the door. John glanced at the clock; it was really late now, and thinking of getting some sleep was so inviting. Getting a taxi to hammer on Sherlock Holmes' door wasn't as appealing, shockingly.

"In the morning," Sarah repeated quietly, lifting one of her hands from his chest to brush her fingertips over his cheek.

John numbly nodded and cradled her head as he planted a doting kiss on her forehead, breathing in her sweet scent. The two tumbled into bed. No sex, just holding one another and John was just fine with that. It wasn't until Sarah's breaths slowed and deepened, that he unwound his arms from around her and lay on his back, staring hard at the ceiling. Guilt clanged furiously inside of him...

...Sherlock threw his duvet off himself, not caring where it landed just so long as it was off his scalding hot skin. Clutching the two ends of the pillows, he bent them over so they shaded his eyes though not a single light was on in his bedroom. His teeth chattered against one another painfully, and his chest felt so tight like his windpipes were curtains that had been drawn firmly shut, refusing much oxygen reaching his starving lungs. Sherlock would never admit to crying. Never in his entire life. If ever a harsh word were thrown in his direction, if ever the world felt like it was collapsing on top of him, if ever he just couldn't restrain the bloating emotions any longer, he would always cry in private. He used to cry as a child of course; boorishly he would howl until he was held, but he soon grew out of that habit as Mummy despised crying of any sort and he only ever aimed to please her. The tears spilled down his cheekbones now, down his throat and stilling at his collarbones, quivering there until they dried up.

He didn't recall dropping off. He only realised his eyes had closed when they suddenly ascended, stirred by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Sherlock bolted upright in his bed, finding his face nearly colliding with another. His breath hitched in his throat like a solid block.

No one had ever invaded his personal space like this and for reasons beyond him, he was frozen stiff. He only permitted touch when he had initiated it, and he had not initiated this at all. It stunned him, punctured his core and the shivers skipped along his limbs again. A hand touched his forearm as if to soothe them. It was so dark Sherlock could see no face but could smell something familiar...it was a scent that he secretly loved, one that he would inhale greedily just so he could engrave it to memory whenever he found himself missing it, which had been a lot as of late.

John's aftershave.

Sherlock dimly noted the familiar jumper, the black-and-grey striped one that he had once said that made the doctor look like a humbug. He gradually began to hear how heavy and loud his breaths were becoming, and how the hand that had touched him was stroking his arm. Sherlock wasn't fond of touch, as aforementioned, but at that moment, he welcomed it keenly. He even allowed himself to relax and he closed his eyes again, not even flinching when the tip of John's nose met his.

They only opened again when he felt something warm, soft, and slightly wet greeting his mouth.

John was kissing him. John. John. John. John. John. John. John...

That name tripped and tumbled over itself as many autumn leaves being overpowered by a breeze. Sherlock had kissed other people before, though no one had ever kissed him. If they went to, he would always turn his head away to block them, allowing only them to connect with his cheek. Without taking in what was happening to him, without foreseeing it in any sense, John had unexpectedly kissed him.

John pulled away, yet not far. Sherlock was amazed to find himself following on after him as he pulled away, eyes lazily half open, lips parted. The two watched each other in the dark, and then John claimed his mouth again with more vigour and passion this time. It wasn't tentative or testing the waters, it was claiming ownership over him and Sherlock didn't mind in the least. The tongue against his own, the sounds of their kisses pricking the silence like perfectly sharpened pins, the hands dragging him closer to push him down again. John was on top of him. John...John...Sherlock gripped on to him as if he was drowning, tilting his head back obediently as the kisses were now sprinkled against his throat. His throat was a sensitive place, and that was enough for his mind to go murky and for all sense and thought to die out altogether.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck. Sherlock yelped in surprise, touching the abused spot. He glanced up, expecting John to be looking inquiringly, perhaps even apologetically, at him. He wasn't. Sherlock saw John's back briefly as it hastily retreated, sprinting out of the room.

Numbly, Sherlock got to his feet, both of which were heavy and not too eager to take on his weight, running after him. "John!" he called desperately, coming to a stop in the living room. It was as if John had vaporised into the air. The door was shut and when Sherlock tested it, he found it was locked.

Sherlock blinked in the gloom, feeling the clench of his heart tighten painfully. He brought a hand to his face, clamping down the sobs that would not come to him. Had that even happened? It must have done...right? John had been there, he had felt him, smelled him, seen him...Sherlock, finally feeling the entirety of his exhaustion at long last, made his way to bed.

When he entered his room, he caught sight of himself in his mirror, and approached it. Sherlock leaned his head to one side, and saw a bruise forming on his neck. He turned on the light, squinting as it was so bright to his unaccustomed eyes, and studied the mark closer. The bruise remained when he gave it a second look, and he identified the teeth marks so it couldn't have been something self inflicted. John had been there, and whilst this partially assured him, it partially petrified him too...

**[SH]**

Lestrade wasn't exactly excited about Sarah's birthday party, but he couldn't muster a false excuse to squirm out of it. He felt somewhat sorry for John; it was obvious the guy was clutching at strings and didn't have a lot of friends who he could invite to this do. Greg told himself he would only stay for an hour if things were dire, and this reassured him to some extent as he knocked on the door, which was opened only a couple of seconds after.

"Hey," Greg said, trying to sound as bright and cheerful as possible. John didn't reply; he just stepped aside and Greg shuffled awkwardly in. Once the door was shut behind him, he held out the bottle of wine he'd found lying around his flat. "Nothing fancy," he admitted sheepishly. "But knew I couldn't turn up without bringing something."

John still said nothing. He took the bottle and looked at it without really looking at it, kind of just going through the motions. The detective inspector cleared his throat uneasily, eventually gaining the doctor's attention.

"Everything alright?" Greg asked, frowning slightly. "You seem a bit—distant."

John wearily smiled. "Sorry, no I'm just..." he stifled a yawn, setting the bottle aside and pouring them both a glass. Greg's helping was ordinary and small, whilst John's was triple the usual, and he gulped it down as if it was clear water.

"Cheers..." Greg mumbled, taking a tiny swig from his drink. "Just what?"

"Tired," John answered after a lengthened pause. "I'm just—so, _**so**_ tired. Hardly got any kip last night."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Anything in particular keeping you up?"

John looked unwilling to reply and cast his eyes down, wading deep in thought. "No," he said shortly, pouring himself a second glass.

Lestrade took this as his cue to drop the matter and did so; talking nonsensically about anything his brain could produce, varying from sport, to the news, even briefly on the weather. John seemed grateful for this and soon started to speak more animatedly, as if shaking off whatever was plaguing him. An hour quickly passed and Lestrade had settled down on the sofa next to the doctor, laughing and drowning glass after glass. The atmosphere seemed to turn lighter, and more carefree. All the same, Greg couldn't help but wonder why Sarah was keeping such a distance from John, why she was only throwing him fleeting glances before returning to whatever conversation she was engaged in. He contemplated asking John about it, but nudged the idea away. It wasn't his place to pry, and if John hadn't brought it up, he most likely didn't want to discuss it.

All in all, it seemed the party was going to be a pleasant occasion after all—that is until there was a knock on the door.

John sprang up so fast he knocked Lestrade's glass right over, which was luckily empty and didn't shatter. Lestrade looked over his shoulder, heaving a sigh. Then he turned back around and waited for John to come back over.

The front door opened and the two men regarded each other. Shudders tiptoed down John's spine and he forced a smile to twinge at the corner of his mouth as his eyes met Sherlock's.

"You're late," John remarked hoarsely.

"Fashionably," Sherlock returned his voice as rich and deep as usual. "May I come in?"

He was being horrendously polite and well mannered; John could hardly believe the man standing before him was the same one. Numbly and stricken dumb of words, John stepped aside to allow the tall, lithe man to come in.

John noticed how Sarah was glaring at him; he had neglected to tell her he'd invited Sherlock, knowing full well she'd protest. He didn't mind for now, and he was certain he wouldn't mind it later when she was telling him off. Sherlock lingered behind John like a shadow that had outgrown its solid counterpart, not saying a word, just floating at his heels.

"Drink?" John asked, trying to keep his manners.

"No thank you," Sherlock said, again with that alien politeness.

John didn't know what he'd expected to come out of inviting Sherlock. Maybe some sort of—some sort of—he couldn't even think of what he wanted. He just wanted things to go back to _**normal**_. That was what he wanted most of all. Just to look up at the consulting detective and to know he had someone there, to know that he wasn't bitterly and utterly alone anymore. Looking up at Sherlock now, didn't give him that feeling and he was profoundly disappointed.

"Are you feeling any better?" John said just to sting the silence that had fallen between them.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He looked as if he was unsettled, as if he was waiting for something. Some sort of explosion, judging by the way he was shuffling from foot to foot, the way his fingers were curling and uncurling into his palm.

He clearly still wasn't eating or sleeping right, and upon further inspection, John noticed that he had missed a button on his dark purple shirt, something Sherlock rarely did. He kept fidgeting too...he looked incredibly nervous and uneasy.

"Let's go out into the hall," John suggested quietly, checking on Lestrade who was now chatting with a woman who worked at the clinic with Sarah. Sherlock complied without saying a word.

Out the pair stepped out into the hall, away from everyone else. No one seemed to notice their absence, no one seemed to care they were leaving in fact. John closed the door behind him and was startled to find that his back was being pressed firmly against it milliseconds later, and the consulting detective was incredibly close against him.

"Whoa—wh—what? What on _**earth**_ are you doing?" John demanded, trying to dampen the shrillness to his tone so not to attract attention.

Sherlock was considering him, darkness in his expression that John had never seen before. It was as though a shadow had fallen across his features, a shadow that threatened to eat up all of the others the man had ever made. It threatened to claim him, and it truly frightened John.

"John—" was all Sherlock said, his voice rumbling like thunder in his throat.

"Seriously, what are you doing?" John tried again, holding the man's upper arms so to restrain him, fearing that he would soon be entirely upon him. "Get off me..."

Sherlock knotted his fingers into John's jumper, never once removing his eyes from John's. "Why are you fighting me, John?"

"Why? Because you're bloody feeling me up in the middle of a hallway! That's why!" John exclaimed. It struck him that he wouldn't be able to shake the other from him and the pace of his heart hastened a considerable amount. He could only look into that face, the face he'd told himself he knew better than anyone else; he searched desperately for a trace of that man that he'd claimed to know so well...to his dismay, he was struggling.

John felt helpless, and a snippet of his brain urged him to call out for someone, yet the rest of it reminded him that this was Sherlock, his best friend—the friend he trusted with his life and, without any real reason, depended on. Sherlock's breath was playing against his lips; though be it an odd sensation, he didn't shy away from it. He continued to face Sherlock straight on without ducking or turning his head ajar. Those light eyes were studying his, as if stripping away his very flesh and seeing his core, admiring it. John felt overly exposed under such a stare but knew he could do nothing to cease it. He was too busy listening to the sounds of the party on the other side of the door; the sounds of laughter bubbling up and frothing out of the corners of the mouths of the numerous guests that he didn't know, the music humming obliviously away...

Identical to two glasses being brought together in a toast, Sherlock and John's lips met. Instead of a _clank_, there was no sound. It was brilliantly and beautifully silent. For the first time in his life, John found his mind bounding back to the first time he'd ever kissed another. He was eight, and the girl who lived across the road from him had randomly grasped his head and banged their mouths roughly together. That feeling of unearthing something new within himself, was replayed now for the first time in many years. It was like finding out a new fact about yourself, the first time you ever kissed someone. You extend, you grow, in a strange sense. You feel a little heavier, but not a burdening heaviness—a cherished one. John felt it right then when his lips collided with Sherlock's, and he sharply breathed in through his nose, eyebrows rising as he found his held on the other's upper arms loosening. The crown of his head tilted back with a gentle thump against the wood of the door, a door that had once felt like it was trapping him now felt as though it was steadying him, keeping him intact. John truly wondered if he would shatter right then, the way his bones seemed to shiver under his flesh, the way his heart inflated beneath his ribcage.

Sherlock parted, a fragment of a whimper pattering from his parted mouth. John watched him closely, only just realising that his hands had leapt up to hold Sherlock's shoulders rather than his arms. He wondered if he was hurting him, considering how tightly he was holding on, yet he feared if he were to loosen it, he would crumble down to the ground.

"Just as I remembered it," Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes in an almost sleepy manner and resting his forehead against John's wearily.

John seemed to break out of whatever daze he'd stumbled into and he began to see clearly. He broke away, as if briskly reassembling himself.

"What do you mean by that?" he murmured, a frown cutting its ugly shape into his face.

Sherlock grinned lazily, opening his eyes to look at John. "You kissed me the other night...I was just hoping it would feel as good as I remembered it..."

John was blinking rapidly in vast bewilderment and he dropped his hands to his sides. Sherlock, seemingly only just then sensing something was amiss, straightened up and tensed. He looked almost stung at John's reaction.

"W-we've never kissed before, Sherlock," John said uneasily. "T-that was the first time...ever...that was the first time I've ever kissed you, let alone another bloke." The term bloke sent a fist of nausea into his gut and he bleakly reminded himself never to use it again, and to never tell anyone that he'd done that.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock said lowly. "What are you talking about?"

John scanned Sherlock's eyes, getting the idea that things could explode at any given moment. Tentatively, he continued. "That was the first time we've ever kissed, Sherlock..."

"Bullshit!" Sherlock had never sounded so—so aggressive before. Angry of course but never aggressive. This was the first time John had ever heard him use that word before, and he wondered if he'd ever even heard the consulting detective swear.

"Sherlock, don't work yourself up about it," John attempted to amend things. "You must've imagined it..."

"Oh really?" Sherlock snapped, tilting his head to the side and pulling down the collar of his shirt further to reveal an ugly mark against his neck. "Explain that then!"

John inspected it with his medically trained eye and quickly deduced it was a bite, a nasty one at that; there were tiny teeth marks denting the bruise in the centre. Sherlock looked triumphant and readjusted his shirt, concealing it once more.

"That's a bite," Sherlock insisted. "I don't think I could bend that way to do that to myself, someone else did that to me—"

"Yeah, someone else," John interjected softly. "But seriously, it wasn't me, Sherlock. I never made it round to yours that night you called me—I went over but Mrs Hudson said you were out and I just got so caught up preparing this ruddy party I just—that's why I was so nervous about you coming today. I felt awful about not going over to check if you were okay. I promise you."

Sherlock stepped back, his eyes wide as if trying to see everything he possibly could in John's face, searching for a lie, an element of truth—his jaw clenched tightly and lips that had seconds before had been brushing lovingly against John's, were now pressed tightly into a thin, grim line. Sherlock swept a hand over his tired eyes and let out a groan of frustration. John didn't know whether he should say something, to just assure him that it didn't matter and that they had now, actually, kissed. For some reason, this imaginary kiss meant something to Sherlock, and it was perplexing as to how that bruise had turned up on his neck. If it were anybody else, John would have narrowed the solution down to being a drunken mishap, but that wasn't really an option when it came to Sherlock.

"Are you lying, John?" Sherlock demanded abruptly, throwing his hands out agitatedly.

"I swear to you I'm not," John reiterated, gingerly stepping towards him. "Look, it's no big deal. We have kissed now, that's what matters, isn't it?"

He went to touch Sherlock only to have his hand swiped away. The contact left his skin smarting and John had to restrain his anger, telling himself over and over that Sherlock was probably way more upset than he was.

"You don't get it," Sherlock said, in such a broken way it actually _**hurt**_ John to hear it.

"Then help me to," John went on after they had, once again, lapsed into utter silence.

Sherlock seemed to be contemplating on telling John, on pouring out his heart's delicate contents, but then suddenly his features darkened once more and he made to run past him to the stairs. John, having adapted to expect the—well the unexpected whilst living with the detective, lunged out and caught Sherlock's slender arm, holding him in place and preventing him from bolting off.

"Let go," Sherlock growled, not turning around to face John. Instead, he bowed his head, hiding his face with his curls. John was not as idiotic as the consulting detective would have him be, as he realised swiftly that he was, in fact, crying.

"No," John whispered. "Not until you talk to me about this."

"Please let me go," Sherlock pleaded.

Rather than repeating himself verbally, John squeezed the other's arm, hoping the action would help it sink in that he really wasn't going anywhere. The doctor and the detective stood in the hallway that way for a minute or two; in a way both of them were waiting for the other to act first. Since they were both waiting, neither of them moved an inch and nothing happened for a while. John acknowledged the small corner of consciousness that was telling him that he should be feeling guilty right now, guilty for cheating on Sarah on her birthday, that he should be feeling repulsed with himself for kissing another man. Oddly enough, John didn't feel either of those things. If anything, it felt like for the first time in ages, a new chapter was beginning for him and that both terrified and excited him. Whatever the content of said chapter was to be, he didn't care so long as it involved Sherlock. The way he was holding onto him then, it was as if they were re-enacting their true situation, the fragility of their newly blossoming relationship. Sherlock would always try to pull away, he would always try to run from his emotions because he had no idea how to deal with them, and John would always be hanging onto him, refusing to let him go. John knew he would never let Sherlock go. Even if he slipped up and Sherlock had managed to set himself free, John would go chasing after him and wouldn't give up until he was holding onto the other again, even if it was just by a handful of sleeve.

"Talk to me, please," John said hoarsely.

Sherlock didn't speak; he just lifted his head. He didn't even return John's gaze. He stared off into space, the tears visibly swelling in his eyes. When they became too much, they peeled down his face as if shreds of his hard exterior were falling away. John had never seen him cry before—at least not for real. Now he was witnessing it, he knew for certain he never wanted to see it again. He wanted to prevent Sherlock from ever having to shed tears again. Such a revelation in a rational, level-headed man would at least shock him...for some reason, it didn't for John. It was as if he was finally accepting something he'd known for a while...

Sherlock's eyes tilted upwards as if they were glancing at the ceiling, but then they were rolling too far back and before John could register what was happening in front of him, they were closing, and his legs had given way beneath him. John's stomach flinched at the sight, and he rushed forward barely in time to catch the falling man.

John gathered Sherlock in his arms; it was like he was scraping up the shattered remains of a vase. He couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was broken, and this notion terrified him. John lowered him down, leaning his back against the wall opposite the door.

"Sherlock!" John said urgently, trying to keep his voice down for now. He touched the detective's face finding it extremely hot and clammy. He brushed back the curls, clamping the base of his palm against his forehead to find it burning. "Sherlock..." that was all he could say, the only thing he found himself able to utter. Swallowing hard and feeling torn, John kissed the other man's forehead tenderly. "I'll be right back. I promise you, Sherlock...I'll never leave you again for the rest of my days..."

Reluctantly, he got to his feet and swung the door open, bursting inside. "Help!" he cried. "Help! I need some help here!"

Lestrade, sensing the urgency, abandoned whatever conversation he'd found himself in and came to the doctor's aid. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Sherlock's collapsed," that was all John had to say.

"Call an ambulance!" Lestrade shouted back the order as he followed John back out into the hall.

John and Lestrade stood side by side in the hallway, which was now completely empty...

**[SH]**

Break everything, make everything as disfigured as he now was. His skin was near enough translucent, and the sweat stood out clearly against his skin. He was running a high fever again, but this time he found it delicious rather than repulsing. He didn't feel sorry for himself anymore, he was glad he was sick. Secretly, he hoped he would die of this sickness. Sherlock scraped every object from the fireplace, turned over the coffee table spilling whatever was sitting on its surface onto the ground, he tore through the various books on the shelves, tossing them over his shoulder and ripping out the pages. He stood in the centre of his ruin, hands in his hair, chest heaving in ragged breaths.

Sherlock dove into his pocket and popped out the last of the Dionysus pills that he owned, planting the poisonous seeds onto his tongue and gulping them down hungrily. The release he felt wasn't immediate, but the slight tingling sensation playing in his fingertips was good enough for now. Mrs Hudson was out, he didn't know how long for though and he wanted to be gone by the time she came back.

It wasn't John, then...the first person he actually felt something with—it wasn't John. The thought cleaved open his chest and he brought a hand to his mouth so to stifle the sob that threatened to burst out if he wasn't careful enough. Taking his mind off it, Sherlock stormed into the kitchen and picked up every object he could get his hands: beakers, flasks, jars, mugs, dishes—anything he could get he threw down or to the side to burst against the wall. He didn't care that he was standing on shards of glass that kissed the palms of his feet painfully, he just stood there swaying.

"He's certainly messed you up."

Sherlock could only grin at that voice and he let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. "You could say that..." He walked stiffly forward into the living room; he didn't turn his head entirely, he just saw the black figure in the corner of his eye and that was enough for him.

"Tsk, tsk—" the voice playfully scolded. "I do hope he hasn't messed you up too badly, my dear. I was rather looking forward to doing that myself."

**TBC**

_**Please review and let me know what you think. Next update should come as soon as possible, but it depends on whether I have any assignments due for university. This chapter was so difficult to write and I'm not entirely pleased with it, so I apologise if it isn't the best – **_


	10. Nine: Fall Upon Us All

_**As always, I feel obligated to thank you all for the reviews and the favourites since the latest chapter. That chapter—was so difficult to write. It's basically the turning point of this story and I can't stress how many times I re-read and re-wrote it, trying to make it as perfect as I've been planning and seeing it in my mind since I started this. So I'm so happy that you guys thought it wasn't an utter failure :) I feel around another four to five chapters left of this, perhaps more. I'm not sure, but yes, there will be more after this one. **_

_**Just a quick side note: when I write I listen to music. Music evokes the correct emotions in me to put myself in the position of the characters, and so I was thinking maybe mentioning a song or two for you to listen to as you read this? It may also help you see where I'm coming from. In this chapter, whilst concerning Moriarty, the song 'Horror of Our Love' by Ludo, which is very haunting, really fits with him and his feelings towards Sherlock. At the end of this chapter, I may mention some other songs that helped me write this. If you find this sort of thing helps you, let me know.**_

**[SH]**

"Surprised?"

Sherlock smirked. "Me? Never. Just relieved you decided to make an appearance now rather than later."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because I feel like breaking something," Sherlock said. The words were jolting out of his mouth before he had time to reanalyse or study them, so, for the first time; everything he said was naked and utterly honest. Moreover, it was blatant to the two men in the room.

The man in black, whom Sherlock still hadn't leaned his gaze towards yet, let out a short, musical laugh. "Oh, in time, my dear, in time. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"That we do," Sherlock drawled in response. He was staring fixedly out of the window. It was raining heavily out: he hadn't noticed. It was also quite dark now, suggesting it was possibly close to the evening.

"Aren't you going to look at me?"

Sherlock didn't want to for he feared that if he did, the figure would vaporize, and he would come to realise it was all an illusion. He didn't want that. He wanted this to be real. He couldn't trust his mind anymore, not since it had played such a cruel trick on him. His jaw clenched as he recalled John's confused expression when he'd mentioned their first kiss. That first kiss they had shared had never happened, and even though they had now kissed, Sherlock felt betrayed. He felt betrayed because when their lips had met that night in his room, it had been the first time something had stirred inside of him. He'd finally _**felt **_something, and to discover that it was false—it was agony.

He heard the person moving closer towards him, and saw the blur of black drawing slightly nearer. Sherlock swallowed hard. Despite being heavily intoxicated, he hadn't completely lost his senses. If this was, who he thought it was, if this wasn't a delusion, he was going to be in danger. That little thrill zipped through his system and the fear was cast briskly aside. It was replaced by excitement.

Sherlock turned his head ajar for his eyes to connect with Jim Moriarty's, who was now practically touching him, his chest brushing against his upper arm. A repulsive sneer crawled across Jim's mouth like an insect, his dark brown eyes standing out on his face like two foreboding and oppressive clouds that held the threat of a storm brewing behind them. Neither said anything.

**[SH]**

"I'm going to Baker Street," John declared, practically leaping into his jacket, hands shaking as he pulled up the zip. "He _**has**_ to be there."

"I don't see how he could've made it all the way over there," Lestrade pointed out. "By the sounds of it, he was virtually unconscious."

"Well, I don't care if it seems impossible," John partially snapped out. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." he flushed. "That's what Sherlock's told me all this time anyway and let's face it; the man's bloody right about everything!"

Lestrade nodded, gaze tilting towards Sarah who was sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed, looking in a completely different direction. The party had deflated not long after they had discovered Sherlock had gone, the guests dispersing quickly. Sarah was clearly displeased with the situation. Greg knew she was worried about Sherlock, however, otherwise she'd have left the room or even the flat entirely. Instead, she lingered, listening in and feigning indifference. She stiffened when John said the last part.

"I'll go with you," Lestrade said, opening the door. He paused before leaving and called back: "Happy birthday, Sarah. Sorry about all of this."

Sarah glanced over her shoulder at him, blushed, and then nodded, offering a tiny smile. John, seemingly only just remembering her, gave her a hasty kiss on the top of her head and then followed Greg out. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sarah buried her face in her hands, tears spilling down her face.

"We have to walk it," Lestrade said as John edged towards the side of the road to stretch out his arm for a taxi. When John turned to him, brow furrowed, he added, "Just in case he collapsed somewhere. We don't know for certain he managed to get back to Baker Street yet."

John was reluctant. He wanted to get back to Baker Street as soon as humanly possible. It was as if there was a tether in his heart and on the other end was Sherlock. He liked to think that he felt a tug in his chest, urging him to get to 221B, but what Greg said made more sense and he was forced to oblige, waving off a taxi that had sidled up to the curb. The doctor and the detective inspector started their walk to Baker Street.

Sarah gripped the sides of the sofa, inhaling deeply and shakily inwards. She felt so idiotic right then; John had suddenly appeared in her life seemingly at the perfect moment and she had kept telling herself it was too good to be true. She was an independent person, but she had allowed herself to believe that he was the one. It was becoming abundantly clear that that wasn't the case at all. John had found the one he would give everything up for, the one he would go to the ends of the world for, and it wasn't her.

Sarah made her way to their room...well it was only her room now, and started to pack his stuff. She did this hurriedly and without much care as the act itself was intensely painful. John's phone, which was sitting on the bedside table, hummed and swerved a bit on its side. Sarah saw it was a phone call. She respected his privacy and was initially going to ignore it, but due to the circumstances, she decided to check who it was in case it was Sherlock calling. It was Mycroft Holmes. Judging by the surname, she connected this to the consulting detective and, hesitating for a moment, answered it.

She had only just brought it to her ear and had no chance to offer any greeting for a voice was already speaking frantically and loudly to her.

"John, I need to speak with you immediately. That boy, Raz, was found dead this morning. We found him in his mother's attic with a bullet wound to the head. His mother made the call, and she isn't guilty of doing it. No, there is someone else who did this. What's more, he's been dead for more than a couple of months, and there wasn't a phone on the body. Raz didn't have his phone!" Sarah was too dumbfounded to point out that this wasn't John. Assuming the lack of reaction was due to the doctor's slowness, Mycroft groaned in exasperation. "Sherlock has been texting Raz's mobile phone and someone has been providing him with drugs but it hasn't been Raz! Someone murdered him, took his phone, all so they could become a dealer to Sherlock! I have a strong feeling Moriarty is behind all of this."

Sarah, panicked by all the overwhelming information being thrown on top of her, hung up and turned the phone off. She brought her hand to her mouth, staring at it in shock Leaving John's bags on the bed, she grabbed her own coat, pulled it on, and headed out. When she managed to hail a taxi, she requested that it take her to Baker Street.

**[SH]**

"Look at you," Jim Moriarty hissed, starting to circle around Sherlock, eyes dragging themselves up and down him in an almost critical way. "Look how messed up you are...how _**ugly**_ you are now. Do you want to know why you're ugly, Sherlock?" he stopped as if waiting for an answer yet he knew full well he'd receive none. "Because you're so vulnerable now. You're pathetic aren't you? You let someone under your skin and now you're just—you're ruined."

Sherlock didn't dare blink. Panic prickled up his skin as the shorter man disappeared for an instant as he went around behind him, and it didn't ease even when he was back in sight again. It was like a shark slicing the surface of the water with its fin, only revealing part of itself. It wasn't so much the 'fin' that terrified Sherlock; it was what he couldn't see. What was under the seemingly calm surface of Moriarty? Something monstrous with its jaws agape ready to devour him whole? That image made him tremble.

A yelp bolted to his lips when Jim reached out a hand, and he only just managed to suppress it by clamping his mouth tightly shut, watching the other intently, and waiting for that first ripple of insanity to quiver across his features. It never came, and the hand gently touched his cheek, tender as a lover's touch. Sherlock didn't allow himself to relax or let his guard down for a split second. Jim, still maintaining that gentle approach, tilted Sherlock's head to one side. The consulting detective abided, beginning to feel increasingly defenceless.

Jim said nothing. He leaned forwards, inquisitive like a small bird with his head cocked to one side, gaze digging into Sherlock's flesh right down to his very core. Sherlock noticed how Jim licked his lips and, ever so slightly, nipped at the meat of the inside of his mouth like a starving creature who was struggling to be patient, who was hardly suppressing the urge to consume the one before him. Jim, noticing Sherlock studying him, met his gaze and gave a crooked half smile. His eyes, burning into Sherlock like cigarettes being pressed against him, suddenly darkened and he drew his nails down Sherlock's cheek.

The action left Sherlock's skin seething and he draw in a short breath, though made no other sound, and no movement. The marks flamed bright pink against his cheek, and at the dent of where the other's nails had been, miniscule beads of blood raised their heads. Jim's jaw, which was tightly clenched, slackened slightly. He was practically quaking with anticipation.

"It pains me to see you like this," Jim managed hoarsely after a deadly silence. "I just want to wring your neck..." he said this through gritted teeth. "Put you out of your misery...it is the kindest thing to do. I bet you'll look beautiful when you die, Sherlock..." his eyes were practically alight.

Sherlock could say nothing; only frown at what was being said to him. It was disturbing to say the least, and the words were tightly ensnaring him like barbed wire around his throat.

"You're stagnating...Sherlock..." Jim whispered right against his ear, his breath, like a poisonous fume, was boiling hot and crawled down Sherlock's neck. "Your beautiful mind is withering away. It's a pity. I was hoping you'd figure it all out, that you wouldn't be so—_**easy**_. Even now, you have no idea what I'm talking about. It makes me angry..."

Moriarty kissed the side of Sherlock's neck dotingly, and then ran the tip of his nose against it up to his jaw line, where he grazed his teeth along it. Sherlock's chest felt as though it was caving inwards, the rubble of his bones crushing and suffocating his organs. Tears swelled in his eyes. Tears of fear, tears of frustration, or tears of anger—he wasn't sure, but either way they were there, with full promise to fall down his face. His entire body tensed, muscles bunching together as if they were shying away from the sickening touch being forced upon him.

"It hurts me Sherlock that you'd only ever return my affections—when you mistook me for your little pet..."

One single tear skidded down Sherlock's cheek. He let in a brittle, ragged breath and closed his eyes as if to shut out the truth that a segment of his being already knew, but refused to admit. He'd known since John had looked at him that way, from the moment John had pulled away from him in confusion, but Sherlock didn't want it to be true. He relived that night, sitting up in bed to find a face inches from his own. It was so dark, though he must have been aware that it wasn't really John, mustn't he? He'd discarded fact, common sense and all of his sharp intelligence, just to believe for a split second that John had come back for him. That John wanted him, and needed him just as he did. Now he was being forced to face the grotesque truth and his stomach turned and his narrow world that he had built to secure himself and keep everyone else out, shrunk even further.

"We're two halves, you and I," Moriarty breathed, kissing the tear away. "You—_**complete**_—me."

Sherlock refused to peel his eyes open. He would prefer to never see again than to look into that face, knowing that that was the person he'd first felt anything for. When Jim had kissed him—he had felt something, and that notion made him want to fall down and never rise again. He wanted to tell Jim to stop talking, to leave him alone, that he had succeeded in burning the heart out of him, but he couldn't muster the strength to. His head started to turn foggy, and his head felt incredibly heavy as if his neck could no longer support it. Sherlock knew that the drugs had really started to kick in, and he knew it was dangerous to be out of it and high with someone like Moriarty around, yet he could scarcely bother to care anymore.

"But as I said before...you're ruined..."

Pain. Blinding pain and a pressure as powerful as a punch, impacted with his abdomen. All oxygen that he'd stored in his lungs was kidnapped and stolen away from him. His eyes snapped open and his features went taut, lips pressed firmly against one another. A ghost of a whimper managed to just about sneak out, but no other sound left Sherlock. He couldn't bear to look down; he already knew what had happened.

"Shh, dear, shh," Jim cooed, his cheek touching Sherlock's as he brought their heads together. "Shh, I hated doing that to you...it hurt me more than it hurt you." He let out a chuckle. "I confess, though...I rather enjoyed it."

Sherlock could see his own reflection in the window, and recognised the darkness spreading around his stomach to be his own blood. Jim twitched the knife that he had plunged into the detective ever so slightly. The cry of unmistakeable agony that burst from Sherlock brought a wild smile to Moriarty's face. Sherlock was only just able to stand upright, leaning forwards so to ease the pain. Moriarty was holding him up, preventing him from sinking down to his knees; his hand pressed boldly directly over Sherlock's heart, which was beating so unsteadily and frantically.

Sherlock couldn't process how much blood he was losing. He was accustomed to seeing a dead body. Blood itself didn't bother him at all, but this was entirely different. The blood soaking through his shirt was his own. It wasn't as if he'd never seen himself bleed before. It was just the amount that startled him. It struck him how bad an injury this was. If he concentrated too hard on it, he fancied he could feel the blade embedded inside of him, the chill of it radiating through his body, and he did his best to abort this thought.

When the weapon was withdrawn from him, Sherlock's body gave way and he sagged down onto his knees. Moriarty didn't even attempt to prevent this; in fact, he had removed his hand from the detective's chest when he had pulled out the knife. He turned his back on Sherlock altogether and walked over to a bag he had set down on the floor by the door, knelt in front of it and starting rummaging through its contents.

Sherlock was hardly managing to stay on his knees, winding his long thin arm around his stomach as if he was trying to hold everything in. His body pleaded with him to lie down, but he rejected the idea. Doing that would make him even more exposed than he already was. He would feel ten times more at Moriarty's mercy that way, and he wasn't about to lie down and give up. He still had some strength, and whilst some would call that pride, he would call it a sense of dignity.

Jim pulled out a garment of clothing from the bag and wiped the knife clean on it. He then flaunted back over to his plaything, and dropped what appeared to be a shirt in front of him. Sherlock flinched when he recognised the black-and-grey striped jumper. His vision blurred and swayed in and out of focus.

"Just a little present for our soldier," Jim planted another kiss on Sherlock's now freezing cold cheek.

**[SH]**

John had run for his life before. He had run for the lives of his fellow soldiers. He had run away from home once as a child. He had run to his most likely death...but never had he ran so fast. It wasn't just his life on the line. It was everything. Not just his literal life but also everything he cared about, everything that he needed to keep him going. It was startling to find that he attached those things to someone as unstable and as emotionally stunted as Sherlock Holmes, but it was a fact. Not debatable, not a matter of opinion—it was solid and unalterable.

Lestrade kept calling out to him, telling him to slow down and to check the streets properly first, though John was paying him little heed. Reluctantly, Greg paused to reclaim some of the oxygen he desperately needed, the back of his throat absolutely raw and his chest heaving. John didn't even glimpse over his shoulder to see if the detective inspector was still in tow.

221b Baker Street sat like a gleaming beacon, and John had never imagined how relieved anyone could feel at the mere sight of a building. His pace slowed momentarily, his legs turning weak in pure relief. This lapse was only a millisecond long as he remembered the purpose behind his having sprinted over there like a lunatic on fire. He paid no heed to the fact that the door was partly open—he assumed it was because Sherlock was too tired or something, and besides that was a sign that someone was in and this raised his hopes like no other.

John tripped up the stairs, only deterring from falling down by gripping tightly onto the banister. Again, the door was open and he burst in, eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of Sherlock. Immediately, his attention was gripped by a pool of liquid on the floor. His world crumpled. Everything seemed to fracture inside of him, and he staggered forward towards it. Blood. There was no mistaking it. He ripped his eyes away; his heart perched at the back of his mouth threatening to tilt backwards into his throat and choke him. On the floor by the window, something was crumpled up. John cautiously and stiffly approached it.

In his head, all he could think was _**Oh God...please if you exist...oh God no... please...please God...**_

John picked it up and held it up, straightening it out. He identified what it was right away. Dimly in the corner of his skull, he heard his own voice from that morning...

"Where's my jumper, Sarah?"

"Which one? Be a bit more specific, will you? You own every jumper ever made."

"Alright, ha-ha. My striped one. The black-and-grey one."

"I haven't a clue. Maybe you left it at Baker Street?"

And there it was now, in his hands before his eyes, and staining the front of the aforementioned jumper, was even more blood. John didn't want to, but he knew he had to in order to tell how fresh it was. He brought it back down, cradling it in his arms like a bundle of a child, and traced his fingertips lightly over it. To his disdain and horror, it was wet and shone its furious red against his skin. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger against one another as if to erase it entirely, to deny its existence, yet it only spread. John's limbs turned numb and he straightened out his arms without caring if the jumper fell down at his feet.

John lurched forward to the window, trying his hardest not to be sick. He struggled to tell himself that it might not be Sherlock, it might not be Sherlock, it might not be Sherlock—, but he wasn't in the least convinced. In fact, he became even more certain that it was the consulting detective's and that made him feel like he was sinking. John stared outside, watching the steady movement of the clouds so to calm himself so he could think clearly. He spotted Lestrade jogging towards the building, and he started to wonder what he could say, or rather how he should say it.

He brought a hand to his mouth, sternly ordering himself to pull himself together. It didn't mean Sherlock was dead...there wasn't too much...was there? No there wasn't. It could be blood from anything...head injuries in particular bled profusely...this didn't make him feel better at all. John felt like yelling out of the window to tell Lestrade to hurry up, as the detective inspector seemed to be taking forever to get there.

Abruptly, John froze. His hand dropped from his face and he leaned forwards until his forehead was practically against the glass, eyes wide. He blinked rapidly as if to fix his vision, as if it was just a figment of his imagination, a trick of the eyes. It wasn't. A red dot was dancing against Greg Lestrade's back.

"Oh God," John gasped, mustering as much strength as he could to swing himself around and tore through the room, down the stairs and stumbled outside.

Greg saw him. He raised a hand, frowning at the mortified expression on the doctor's face.

He mouthed the words 'what's wrong' and then that sound...that terrible sound that seemed to split the sky in two, filled the air.

John flew to his side.

Passersby shrieked in shock and ducked for cover, searching for the culprit and the next bullet.

Greg Lestrade lay still.

**TBC**

_**Another difficult one to write especially with so much work to do. The next chapter may come sometime next week. I have an exam next Wednesday so a lot of my time will be dedicated to revision. Also with Christmas drawing ever closer, I will find less and less time to sit down to write. Don't worry though, the next chapter will be coming up and will be up by next week I swear. Please let me know what you thought! Moriarty varies in everyone's stories and I tried to remain loyal to that short amount of footage of him at my disposal. I do think he is quite twisted, and is infatuated with the idea of Sherlock. He views Sherlock as this figure, who is immortal and untouchable, so seeing a human side of him is somewhat disturbing to him. I hope that came across in this chapter. Everything will be explained in time, don't worry. And yeah just continue to support me and continue to enjoy this story because I am definitely enjoying writing it. It's my favourite one I've written thus far. Thank you again **_


	11. Ten: His Old Ways

John sat there, in the same chair he'd sat on many different occasions, surrounded by people he didn't know who were busying themselves around the flat, not even casting him half a glance, and all he could wonder was how everyone could leap back into motion? After what had just happened, after what they'd just found out, how could everyone keep working? How could they even focus right now? John certainly couldn't. His ears were still ringing, and his heart hadn't yet plodded back down to its regular pace.

He diagnosed that he was in a state of shock; his breaths were shallow, his palms clammy, his eyelids were heavy. Classic symptoms of shock.

"John,"

Mycroft Holmes stood before the doctor and, for the first time not just in John's knowledge but everyone else's too, he looked at a loss. He appeared to be torn between acting as an older brother should (i.e. bursting into fierce fits of rage and/or tears, demanding answers), and as acting as a professional (i.e. forcing a stiff upper lip and acting with brilliant apathy as if he had no emotional ties to the situation whatsoever, like it was just an example in an exam). He seemed to be favouring the latter as he lowly passed on orders to those who tentatively approached him, eyes studying the room in a very Holmes manner, clearly seeing trillions of tiny, seemingly insignificant, details on what had exactly happened at 221b. John would have appreciated this if he weren't so damned worried. Not even having someone like Mycroft there comforted him, and he understood that he wouldn't be able to relax until he saw Sherlock again in the flesh and saw whoever had done this dead with his very eyes.

"John," Mycroft tried again, nudging the doctor's foot with his umbrella. John flinched at the contact and tilted his eyes upwards; they were sore and red, evidently he had been crying. He looked about ready to burst into a fresh supply of tears right there and then, so Mycroft swiftly continued whilst he had the other man in a reasonable and calm state. "I do need you to tell me exactly what you saw. Down to the very last and finest detail, do you understand me? It is _**vital **_that you tell me everything you remember."

John swallowed and provided a rigid nod in agreement. Mycroft turned and Anthea stepped forward, phone in hand probably with a memopad application ready to jot down notes so to speak. The room suddenly seemed to drop in complete silence and John shifted uncomfortably now fully aware that every ear was focused on what he was saying.

"Well..." he started hoarsely, his voice coming out all crackly and soft as if he was suffering from a sore throat. "How far back are talking here?"

"From when you lost him, John," Mycroft said, obviously struggling to maintain his patient and understanding tone.

John's mind twitched back to that instant when his lips were crushed against Sherlock's. He swore he could still feel the warmth against his own, and the urgency behind it all. How Sherlock had gripped him as if he was going to collapse if he didn't hold on tight, and how John held onto him in return, feeling precisely the same. John's cheeks burned. He wasn't about to tell Mycroft that as well as Anthea and the rest of those in the flat who he'd never met before in his life. It was probably a bizarre thing to get caught up on considering the circumstances. So what if they all raised their eyebrows and sniggered? So what if they nudged one another? So what if Mycroft glared at him? So what? Why did any of that matter? Sherlock mattered and that was all. All the same, John couldn't bear to utter that fatal first sentence. He couldn't even think of a way to begin, and a way to conceal all the gaps in his story such as why Sherlock got upset and so on. Mycroft's eyes were boring into him now, and John decided to study his own hands that were clasped together between his knees as he spoke, as if pretending he was simply talking to himself aloud.

"Sherlock came to Sarah's party," he explained slowly. "He was late..." _**Fashionably. **_"And he just seemed a bit—on edge. So, I suggested we went out into the hall. I thought he wanted to talk about what had happened between us and maybe about me moving back here. We started talking and he went funny..."

"Elaborate on that, John—please," Mycroft added the final word reluctantly, hoping it would somewhat encourage him to carry on.

"He just went really quiet and he started to—" The way Sherlock had looked at him when he'd told him they'd never kissed—that _**pain**_...pain that John had caused...was so blatant. Sherlock had always done his best to conceal when someone had hurt him or when he'd felt a pluck of emotion, but right then it was as if he'd forgotten that he had worn this wall all his life. Right then, whatever he was feeling, whatever emotion John had evoked in him, was so strong that even the man with the most complicated and focused mind had forgotten to hide it. John went to say that Sherlock had gotten upset, but decided to bury that part as well. Sherlock would have wanted that. "He just started to act—differently to how he usually does, that's all. Then out of nowhere he collapsed."

Mycroft visibly stiffened.

"I tried bringing him round but he was out of it," John pressed on. "I started to panic so I left him to go and get help, to get someone at the party to ring an ambulance." He scratched the back of his head uneasily. _**Help! I need some help here! **_"Lestrade came with me back out into the hall but by the time we got there, Sherlock had vanished. Up and gone. The guests started to leave and I went back inside to get myself a coat—it looked like it was going to piss down—and then Lestrade and me left."

"What time approximately was this?" Anthea asked, looking apologetic for interrupting.

"Um..." he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled heavily. "Not sure to be honest..."

"Get out your phone," Mycroft interjected. "Look up what time I called you, that would give us a definite time. We can't do anything with approximations."

John frowned. "My phone?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I called you."

John shook his head, earning a deep and dark frown. "I left it back at Sarah's," John insisted. He patted his coat and jeans pockets so to prove he was telling the truth. "Why did you call me?"

"Someone answered that call," Mycroft said irritably.

"What call?" John threw his hands up in exasperation.

"The call regarding Raz." When John displayed genuine confusion and curiosity, Mycroft deflated. "Raz was found dead this morning in his mother's attic. He's been dead for at least a couple of months."

John felt a short pang of guilt. Though that kid had earned him an ASBO and had been Sherlock's dealer, he was still at the end of the day a kid. He couldn't even fathom how his parents were taking the news; the way Raz's mother had looked at him that day he'd sort of attempted to break into their home to search for answers flitted into his head and an extra weight was added in his chest.

"What does that mean?" he asked after a pause.

"It means that Raz hasn't been dealing with Sherlock—well, recently anyway," Mycroft clarified. "He did deal with my brother in the past but he hasn't as of late." John's eyes widened. "There was no phone on the body, and upon investigation and after interviewing his mother, we found out that..."

"He lost his phone," John gasped out, all feeling draining from his face.

"How did you know that?" Mycroft looked unusually perplexed.

"His mother told me," John said, turning hot at the ears. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that."

A fleeting look of anger crinkled Mycroft's features but then it dimmed and smoothed out, and he resorted to just glowering down at the floor as he spoke. "This means then that someone stole Raz's phone and then they murdered him."

"Why would they murder him?"

"So we couldn't question him, most likely. So we wouldn't figure out that he was in no way involved and also so we'd go on a wild goose chase trying to find him in Scotland or wherever it was." Mycroft waved an agitated hand as if to swipe it all away. "Either way, he was innocent, and someone else has been dealing with my brother."

John swallowed hard. "So Sherlock _**has **_been using again?"

Mycroft's mouth was pressed together in a grim line and he gave one minute nod as if he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud because it would make it more real.

"You and Lestrade came here," Mycroft said eventually. "Looking for Sherlock and then what?"

"I ran on ahead because—I don't really know why I just had the feeling Sherlock would be there," John went on. "Lestrade lagged behind. I think he thought Sherlock might have not made it back to the flat so he was checking round every corner and so on. I went upstairs and that was when I saw the blood." He glimpsed at the puddle now on the floor that was being photographed by some of Mycroft's men. "I saw my jumper on the floor and when I picked that up there was more blood. After that, I just looked out the window and saw Greg—I mean DI Lestrade and there was a sniper on him. I ran back out as fast as I could but..." he gnawed his bottom lip.

Mycroft grunted. "Thank you, John," he said gruffly. "I can't help but think that that isn't the whole story—" John looked at him in alarm, and Mycroft faintly smiled. "But it will have to make do."

John sagged with relief and felt immensely grateful towards the older Holmes sibling, though he wasn't entirely sure why Mycroft was letting him off the hook with this. For a brief second he wondered if Mycroft somehow knew, but the thought became too disturbing and he cut it loose from his consciousness.

"Sir," one of the men that were inspecting John's jumper stepped forward, holding something that John couldn't see between a pair of glinting tweezers. Mycroft's meek smile was discarded and he stepped forward to greet him, squinting.

John, unable to contain his interest, rose to his feet and leaned forward to inspect it. He saw faintly between the tweezers a short dark hair, nearly black. Mycroft took it from the man and held it up to the light.

"It's too short and straight to be Sherlock's," he remarked in an oddly calm way.

John's stomach twisted. "Do you think its Moriarty's?"

Mycroft didn't reply. He handed the tool back and the guy rushed off to take it elsewhere for thorough inspection. John eased himself back down into the chair, his joints creaking as he did so as if he had aged a good fifty years.

**[SH]**

A grimy ceiling...

His body felt like it was prickling like white noise...

His eyes kept rolling back into his skull...

They felt safer in the blackness because then they knew where they were...

His abdomen felt wet...

It pulsed as if it was one giant heart on the outside of his body...

The world was out of sync...

The voices were disconnected from the lips...

Dark eyes...

Dark...

Dark...

"I won't let you die, Sherlock... when the time comes, I want to squeeze it out of you..."

**[SH]**

Sarah was panicked by the amount of police cars and the ambulances sitting in Baker Street, and was even more set beside herself when a female officer stopped the cab and told the driver that the area was off limits. Before the driver could do as he was instructed, she let herself out of the car to have the officer hold up their hands.

"Sorry, do you live on this road?" they asked.

"No, but my—my boyfriend does," Sarah said; only partially a lie, she reminded herself. "221b?"

The officer quirked an eyebrow. "Your boyfriend is Sherlock Holmes? Sarah nodded, not bothering to correct her. The policewoman crossed her arms. "Either way, we have strict orders that this street is off limits to civilians."

"At least tell me what's happened," pleaded Sarah, dismayed that her fib had fallen in miserably.

"There was a shooting. One of our detectives was wounded. We're evacuating the area until we're sure the culprit is caught or long gone."

Sarah ran a hand through her hair. "Do you know anyone called John Watson?" The officer nodded. Sarah dug into her coat pocket and produced a mobile phone. "Can you give this to him? It's his phone, he forgot it."

The policewoman looked a little confused though agreed to either way. Before she could pry anymore, Sarah had climbed back into the taxi, all the while looking up almost wistfully at 221b.

**[SH]**

Sherlock's room had been silently assigned as off limits. John hadn't even needed to be told. He gathered very hastily that Sherlock was an immensely private man and that his room, despite not being used very often, was a private place that John wasn't mean to impose on. Oddly enough, that law still seemed to stand as firmly as before, but John felt that this instance was an exception. A dozen men had tramped right in and practically tipped it inside out looking for clues, a dozen men Sherlock most likely didn't know—surely out of them and John he'd rather the doctor be in there.

John still couldn't cast aside that shudder of guilt that passed through him when he first stepped over the threshold, folding his arms over his chest and peering around as if it was just a short and brisk inspection and he'd soon turn on his heel and leave.

221b was empty now, and the silence seemed to devour and regurgitate itself. Mycroft promised to come back later after finding out whose blood it was that was on the floor and on the jumper, and John felt misplaced just sitting around waiting.

Sherlock's bedroom didn't really feel like a bedroom at all. More like a spare room that was only ever used on rare occasions. Rather than an inhabitant, Sherlock was more like a guest when it came to this place. The only inclination that it was used at all was the clumsily made bed and the mirror with a great crack splitting the centre. John crossed over to it, running his index finger down the break, vaguely wondering what sort of awful mood Sherlock had been in when the mirror had taking a pounding. John almost felt inclined to make the bed properly, but he couldn't quite bring himself to.

He eased himself down onto edge of it and cast his eye around a second time. Moments like those, John wished more than anything that he was as intelligent as Sherlock yet he was utterly aware of what a, excuse the melodrama, _**curse**_ it was at times. Sherlock wasn't able to accept anything anyone told him, he would be aware of every little thing, and he would be absolutely useless when it came to relationships. Look at their relationship—it was living proof. Sherlock was incapable of opening himself up to people, and whenever he did, it was so awkwardly delivered. Like when he'd told John moments after waking up in hospital that he was relieved that John wasn't hurt too badly. It had touched John, but then again who could really survive on instances such as those. The only time one would hear something remotely touching from Sherlock was after they'd nearly died. No one would want to be in a position of nearly losing their lives just so Sherlock would open up an inch more.

John faintly wondered if Sherlock had ever said anything like that to anyone else before. He doubted it, and that doubt gave him a flicker of pride that he was, most likely, the only one to see that side of the consulting detective.

In the end, John decided that his neat nature would not allow him to leave Sherlock's room in such a mess. The men who had dissected it around an hour ago had just shoved everything out of sight to give the impression of tidiness. John made Sherlock's bed, collected up the pieces of paper with scribbled notes on, and put them in a pile on the chest of drawers.

It was when he went to refold some of Sherlock's shirts that he found something unexpected. He had started to empty out the drawers and when he'd gotten to the wooden base, he found something surprising sitting there. John blinked in bewilderment as the face of a younger Sherlock Holmes looked up at him. He lifted out the photograph tenderly as if it would rip like a moth's wing even at the slightest of touches.

John saw that it was Sherlock standing next to Mycroft; most people when having their photo taken would at least fake a smile or put their arm around the person next to them. John allowed an honest grin to spread across his face as he saw that Sherlock didn't bother with such trivialities, and it warmed him to see something so familiar to him. Sherlock and Mycroft just stood rigidly next to each other with their backs straightened, looking directly into the camera. The eldest sibling had a roundness to his face, and John felt let into the entire 'how's the diet' quip that Sherlock had barked out all those months ago. Sherlock didn't look alarmingly different; his hair was a bit tidier and shorter, he wasn't as skinny though still very thin, yet there was something about him that told John that this was before—before the drugs. John never knew what Sherlock was like before them or even during them really. He only knew the aftermath. Still, he could gather that Sherlock was different just by looking into his younger face.

"I was certain he'd thrown that way..."

John's hand dramatically sprang to his heart at the sound of the older Holmes' voice and he slumped against the drawers when he realised who it was. Mycroft, ignorant as to why the doctor had reacted that way, strode over and glanced over John's shoulder, touching the photograph though not taking it away. His face was unreadable, but John understood that he was touched. The doctor didn't want to speak first and so stood there feeling slightly perturbed, feeling as if he was an intruder in this instant that should really be a private one.

"Our father hated children," Mycroft said after the lengthened pause. "He indulged in Mummy's wishes to have them, but refused to talk to us until we were—intelligent enough to engage in conversation with him. There's seven years between Sherlock and I, you see, John. So by the time our father had started to talk to me, Sherlock was still deemed, in a word, _**unsuitable **_so I understand he felt left out a lot of the time. He adored Mummy though. He wanted nothing more than to please her, and our father always made her feel guilty for supposedly forcing him to have children. Sherlock tried to become more intelligent so to please him just so he would talk to him and make Mummy feel better. Of course, this alienated him from the other children as he devoted all his time to studying. Our father left us in the end. Sherlock felt it was his fault."

John listened intently, trying to imagine how that would feel. To believe with all your heart that your mother is made miserable because you aren't growing up fast enough, because you aren't smart enough...and then to find out you're a failure and made things worse for those you cared for most...you would wish you had never been born. John's blood turned cold at this notion and involuntarily shivered.

"He tried to kill himself once, you know," Mycroft choked out thickly. "He was nineteen. He'd come home from the summer from university, and about four weeks in, he disappeared. We all thought he'd runaway over the night; we searched for hours. We found him four days later in the attic space in the stables. He'd tried to overdose, had taken too much, and had thrown them all up. It looked like pneumonia would kill him for a while. I think that's why he moved to the city as soon as possible you know...so he'd be as far away from that moment as possible, away from Mummy, away from that—that _**blame**_."

John could hardly picture Sherlock as a country boy, though it did make sense. He had a fascination with the city, one that wouldn't be so strong if he'd lived there all his life. Living in the middle of the countryside had to be lonely too, at times.

"I'm thankful for you, John," Mycroft continued, turning to the doctor for the first time. "You've made him want to live again."

"What do you mean?" John inquired, puzzled.

"Sherlock never felt like anyone needed him before, let alone wanted him," Mycroft said, gently pushing the photograph to John's chest in an indication that it was now his. He put his hands behind his back, clasping them together in a nonchalant way. "You make him feel like he's given you something and you appreciate it." John went to settle the picture back down in the drawer but Mycroft touched his arm, stopping him. "Keep it for now. Give it back to him when we find him."

John, suddenly remembering that the man who was the centre of their conversation was missing, jolted back to reality. "Did you find out whose blood it was?"

Mycroft turned grim and nodded. He didn't allow too great a pause so not to get John's hopes up. "It was Sherlock's."

John's fingers curled into his palms to form a strong fist. "And the hair that you found?"

"Not a match as of yet," Mycroft admitted. John's shoulders sagged. "It is highly likely though, that it is who you think it is." It was as though he couldn't even utter the name, as if it was acid on his tongue.

"Moriarty," John murmured. When Mycroft nodded, John wanted nothing more than to lash out at something. Maybe that mirror, it was already broken anyway. It may as well be thrown away because it was pointless. He didn't notice he was trembling with repressed rage until Mycroft clasped his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "How's Greg?"

"He's in a critical condition, but I am assured that he will pull through," he reported with his usual frankness now it was no longer addressing his brother. "No one was found on the scene that could be held accountable. I will position two of my men to keep an eye on Baker Street so if anyone does show up, I will know about it. Where are you staying?"

John went to say Sarah's but then closed his mouth. "Here," he said, somewhat uncertainly.

Mycroft looked about ready to protest but then supposedly decided not to. Instead, he just told John to call if anything happened.

"Oh before I forget," he was halfway out of the door when he said this, retracing his steps and holding out a phone. "This was given to one of the officers from a woman who said she was Sherlock's girlfriend." When he saw John's stunned expression he laughed. "Don't worry, if my brother was in a relationship I would know about it. No, I am confident it was Sarah."

John relaxed and took the phone, mumbling thanks. When he was left alone again, he turned his phone on to find he had a text from the woman herself. It read:

_**I gave them your phone. U left it back at the flat.  
>I hope ur okay, John. I dont know what's going to happen to us 2 nw. <strong>_

_**I'm not happy abowt it bt I'm happy for u. **_

_**Luv Sarah xoxox**_

John went to reply, his thumb hovering over the buttons. Reflecting on it, he had no idea what he was going to say. What could possibly be said? It was blatant that this was her breaking up with him. Then why wasn't he sad? Why wasn't he crying or even angry? Why was he just okay with it, like how you're okay with finding out that a plan that you weren't too keen on in the first place had been cancelled? He felt a hint of relief, even. It wasn't that Sarah wasn't good enough for him, or that he'd never liked her or whatever. He'd been crazy about her in all honesty. She was a wonderful person, and he did feel upset about maybe not having her around anymore. That was the thing; he was more upset about not having her around rather than not seeing her in a romantic way anymore. He hadn't been planning to spend the rest of his life with her, so there wasn't that. There was just—acceptance. John accepted their relationship was over, he accepted that he wasn't going to wake up with her entangled in his arms anymore, with only a slight sting.

This made him feel awful as well as bemused.

In the end, he settled on texting her back something along the lines of 'Okay, thank you for everything, stay in touch'. It was short and he had wanted to say more, however couldn't find anything suitable to say. He didn't want to lie to her, and he didn't want to say anything that could be misunderstood.

John set his phone aside and sat on Sherlock's newly made bed once more. He was comforted by the consulting detective's faint scent that had been woven into everything in the room. At some point, he'd lain down and had just drifted off to sleep, his body so drained and worn from the day's events.

**TBC**

_**I know it was supposed to be up next week but I was so encouraged by the reviews I started getting inspiration and just wrote this in one sitting, which is bizarre for me. I hope you like this chapter. Just to assure you, Greg Lestrade is alive. And where's Sherlock? You'll find out soon. Little is actually known about the Holmes' family back-story so all of this is invented by myself. I was reluctant to add it in case the TV show mentions it and completely make mine a false interpretation but anyway, I just wrote the scene and couldn't bear to cut it out. Please continue reviewing.**_

_**Thank you to everyone who reviewed; thank you to IcedTea. Your review really made my day and it's a pleasure to see that my story is being so enjoyed by someone. You sort of urged me to write this chapter by your support, so in a way this chapter is dedicated to you. To everyone else, your reviews were lovely and are greatly appreciated.**_


	12. Eleven: Sometime Around Midnight

_There will always be something to ruin our lives; it all depends on what, or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken – __**Charles Bukowski**_

"We'll have matching scars, probably," Greg remarked light-heartedly, subconsciously rubbing his afflicted shoulder and wryly smiling up at the doctor.

John struggled to return it. It was the following morning, and Lestrade was doing remarkably well considering. He batted off all of John's attempts at apologising, assuring him that it wasn't the first time he's been shot, which oddly enough didn't set the doctor at ease. Lestrade bright attitude only faltered when he heard about the blood, and his face was drained of all colour, casting his eyes down and clenching his jaw deep in thought. John cleared his throat awkwardly, drawing in a breath that sounded shaky due to an invisible weight upon his chest. The detective inspector cast him a short glance.

"It'll be alright," Lestrade said, partially to himself. It sounded like it was trying to convince himself of that fact rather than the other. "He'll be fine. He can handle himself."

"He really can't," John mumbled before he could stop himself. Realising his statement didn't go unheard, he flushed.

The two considered each other for a moment, neither sure what to say in order to lessen the uncomfortable atmosphere suffocating them or even how to make each other feel better. John excused himself eventually, muttering something along the lines of get better soon, like it was merely a cold the inspector was recovering from rather than a bullet wound. Lestrade raked his brains hastily for something to say, some word of comfort to offer John but by the time words leapt to his tongue, he was left alone.

John fumbled down to the bathroom, his vision somewhat blurred and out of focus, his heart pulsing in his throat and echoing in his skull to bully and prod at his poor brain. Thankfully, the toilets were empty and he was granted a few private minutes. He ran the tap, cupped his hands beneath it to collect some water, and then leaned over to splash his face that felt garishly hot. John hated to admit it, but he was literally sick with worry.

He'd been riddled with nightmares the entire night. All he kept thinking about was Sherlock's eyes—an odd thing to dream about but that was all he could remember. Those pale eyes just boring into him, digging their way coolly to bury beneath his flesh. John also remembered there being a lot of blood. At one point, he started awake thinking he could feel blood all over his hands. He'd frantically rubbed his hands on his shirt and on the duvet in an effort to clean them, and when he checked, he saw there was nothing there. No stains upon his palms, not on the sheets, not on his shirt...there was nothing. John kept bolting into these fits of hysteria throughout the duration of the night, and found he could no longer bear it and just decided to get up.

He was now feeling the brunt of this decision, however, as he stood in the hospital toilet, dabbing his forehead with his sleeve and puffing out his cheeks at his reflection. He really looked rough. He briefly wondered if they would mistake him for a patient...maybe he'd prefer that, to be held back from this mess that he'd landed himself in. Then his only responsibility was to wait for someone to find him, and for someone else to find Sherlock rather than all eyes tilting in his direction, mutely assigning him the one in charge of this entire thing. No one had said it, but John felt like everyone was entrusting him with the job to find Sherlock.

John ran a hand over his face, holding his chin afterwards just studying himself in the mirror. He wished he saw some intelligence and some reliability in his face, that he could look at himself and know instantly that he was going to be the one to get the job done. Yet he didn't know that. In fact, he doubted he was even capable of outsmarting someone like Moriarty. John only ever felt partly intelligent when he was with Sherlock. Odd as that sounded considering the consulting detective just dubbed him as an idiot, John always felt that they were a team and that he was helping Sherlock rather than just being the personification of his shadow. Now he stood alone, with no six foot, dark haired detective at his side...and he never felt so unprepared and afraid in his life. The one time he stood to lose everything, and he was facing it by himself.

Reluctantly, John headed on out, offering jerky nods at some of the doctors and nurses who passed him. Waiting outside for him was Anthea, on her phone as per usual. She opened the car door though she'd scarcely looked up, and John climbed inside, staring fixedly out of the window all the way back to Baker Street, perplexed as to why the world was still plodding along like nothing wrong was happening at all...

**[SH]**

"You have to take your medicine,"

He felt something being pressed against his lips, and knew immediately what it was. There was a hesitation there inside him that he hardly ever felt when it came to a pill being offered to him. The main thing stopping him wasn't actually the fact that it was bad for him or anything along those lines. No, it was more that he didn't trust the man offering it to him. Sherlock's body was groaning with pain, especially around his lower abdomen. He had trained his mind to cope with physical trauma and injury. That was why he was able to go so long without rest or food. However, he'd never experienced anything like this before. He faintly recalled hearing that gut wounds were the most painful place to get stabbed or shot in, but it would take days for him to actually die...nonetheless, with the amount of blood he was losing he accepted that he probably didn't have long.

This stunned Sherlock...it stunned him beyond repair. He calmly accepted that he would die without a twitch of fear or regret. He wasn't thinking of all the things he never had the chance to say or do, though they were present in his consciousness. He never did get to thank Lestrade or admit to Mycroft that he had in fact lost quite a bit of weight or hug Mrs Hudson one last time or tell Anderson where to shove it or tell Mummy he was sorry or...or say goodbye to John. The last notion yanked harshly at his heart. Still, Sherlock was too tired to even consider doing any of those things. He was tired of recovery, sick of it even. He didn't want to go through all of that again. He'd rather just die now, save himself the pain. He realised this was selfish, but he really didn't care. He was tired of fighting for himself by himself. Everyone just expected him to want to go through all of this by himself, because he was meant to have all the answers. For once, he wanted someone to tell him he was wrong and to take him through it step by step.

"Take your medicine," Jim repeated, his teeth greeting so he practically had to bite out the words.

Sherlock smiled faintly. His mind was wandering. It tended to do that recently. Rather than responding, he simply turned his head ajar, his eyes damp from tears, and one glided down his cheek as he moved.

"Oh my dear," Jim cooed, cradling the consulting detective's head in his arms. "So stubborn. I kind of admire it in a way, but it mostly just angers me. If you don't take this, you won't be fit enough for when the doctor comes."

"What doctor?" Sherlock drawled, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to maintain consciousness. He had an idea of what Moriarty meant, but prayed with all his might to a God that he didn't believe in that he was incorrect.

"You know very well who I mean, Sherlock," Jim said, smoothing one hand through the other's tangled curls. "Now please," he added firmly. "Take your medicine."

Sherlock didn't reply. His chest was constricted and he thought about John. John would be seeing him like this...he could already imagine the expression on his face. The one where his feelings ripped themselves clearly through his eyes, peering blatantly out at those who knew to look for them and Sherlock did...as well did Jim. Sherlock couldn't bear for Moriarty to see that, to witness and mock it.

"It's very rude to ignore me," Moriarty pressed, hand sliding down from the detective's hair down the side of his throat, down his chest and then reaching its destination just on the border of his wound. "Answer he properly."

Sherlock loathed being touched. There were a few exceptions, but most of the time it felt like they were trying to creep under his flesh. He would just flinch away from it if he hadn't permitted the display of affection. He hadn't when John had touched him. Jim's touch was as if it was freezing him internally. It was as if it was staining him, like filthy hands over a clean sheet of glass. It felt as though wherever this consulting criminal touched him, a grimy mark would be left there and all Sherlock would see when he looked at himself was where Moriarty had ran his hands, where those fingertips had left their dirty print. He dared to meet the criminal's gaze.

"Stop it," Sherlock breathed. "Don't."

"If you want it to stop, take your medicine," Jim returned placidly.

Sherlock tightened his jaw and Jim twisted his head as if he had a kink. Sherlock saw the wrinkle of hardly suppressed anger crease the other man's face, and actually felt a quiver of fear rattle up his spine. Sherlock turned his head away, closing his eyes. Jim could not take away his thoughts, that was one thing he still owned, an inch of himself that was still entirely his own. His mind ran to John like a child would dive under the covers if they thought they saw something lurking in the darkness. Sherlock hid himself under the thoughts of the doctor, a mental sanctuary that should protect him for at least an instant. He had never relied on anyone before to make him feel safe, and he surprisingly felt stronger now knowing he could just switch off his brain to dip back into the past, a time and place where he felt—safe. The ghost of John's kiss whispered across his lips, telling him to just shut himself down, shut everything out and think of _**him**_, think of being brave for _**him**_, of getting through this for _**him**_...

Jim, aware that he was being ignored, lowered his hand. The touch was light at first so it did not stir the detective at all, but then Jim pressed down the heel of his palm...hard.

An inhuman sound rippled from Sherlock's mouth, which hung open in a suffocated scream, and his eyes, like two doors, swung abruptly open. Moriarty, face taut with the amount of pressure he was applying on the wound, gazed down at the other's face. Blood tiptoed through the web of his fingers down the back of his hand, staining the cuff of his shirt though he didn't seem to notice let alone care.

Without reducing the force of his hand, Moriarty quirked an eyebrow upwards so his brow crinkled. "Do you want to take your medicine now, my dear?"

Sherlock, all his guard tossed down and discarded, openly admitted his current vulnerability and nodded feverishly, not fighting when the pill was pushed gently against his mouth, which he swallowed gratefully. Only when he gulped it down, did Jim remove his hand and moved it to brush the damp curls from Sherlock's forehead, smearing some of the detective's own blood across his skin.

"I know you love fighting me, Sherlock," Moriarty said softly as a mother would when explaining to a child as to why she lost her temper. "To be honest, it wouldn't be as fun if you didn't. But there's a time and a place for games. So next time, when I give you medicine, you do it without resistance." He kissed him dotingly on the cheek, still stroking the curls from his face and then settled him back down on the floor, rising to his feet and moving out of sight.

Sherlock only allowed his chin to tremble once he heard a door close, lifting his head as best as he could only to have it drop back down again with a dull thud. He hadn't even been able to turn over on his side or even look around, and the musty smell was the only thing accompanying him in this cold place. He wasn't even capable of trying to figure out where he was because whenever his head did become momentarily clear, this was when Moriarty appeared and gave him some more medicine, which would join the pain in a collaboration to fog up his mind.

Gradually, his eyes rolled back and he drifted into a dreamless, consuming sleep that felt like it was gnawing at his very being, just withering him away so every time he did regain consciousness, he was becoming less and less like himself in every possible way...

**[SH]**

When John got back to Baker Street, the first thing he heard once starting to climb the stairs, was someone hollering at the top of their lungs. He glimpsed over at Anthea who trailed behind him; when she noticed him looking at her, she forced a smile that just gave the implication that she had no idea why he was so alarmed. John, shaking his head once she refocused on her phone screen, practically jogged up the stairs to see what all the yelling was about.

He was set beside himself in shock when he realised, upon opening the door and stepping into the living room, that it was Mycroft. The elder Holmes sibling was red faced, a temple pulsing in his brow, stabbing his fingers like weapons at the men around him who had recoiled into themselves at his tone of voice. John never questioned Mycroft's power, but all the same it was—it was strange to see him lose his composure like this. He'd always seemed so relaxed regardless of the situation, though John supposed that even a man like Mycroft Holmes couldn't keep his cool when it came to his own brother.

"What do you mean **VANISHED** into **THIN AIR**?" Mycroft demanded, slamming both of his hands down on the table where John had sat opposite Sherlock what felt like years ago. "No, no I won't have that! You better get me some answers soon or all of you will have an answer from me regarding your future working with me, and trust me, it won't be a positive one you'll get."

His waved his hand at them in a signal of dismissal, standing there with his chest heaving as the men working for him scurried around, each keeping a safe distance away from him as they worked around the flat. John was reluctant to approach Mycroft, and didn't until he'd buried his face in his hands, shoulders sagging.

John stood next to him for a good few minutes, just with his hands behind his back with his lips pursed, waiting to be spoken to, nudging down his fizzing curiosity and impatience. Mycroft lowered his hands ever so slightly just to reveal his eyes, which he cast over at John, and then he removed them from his face completely to swing limply at his sides.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, John," Mycroft said thickly. "I know you don't want to hear that after—" he looked the doctor briefly up and down. "—approximately two hours sleep last night."

John, rather than inquiring as to how the older man knew that, merely half smiled and nodded. "Don't worry about it," he assured him. "I feel like a good yell too right now."

"Yeah well, feel free to help yourself to a good yell at one of these idiots," Mycroft muttered darkly, glowering at the backs of his men. "You know what they told me?" John had a good idea from what he heard during the other's tirade but said nothing. "That Sherlock had simply vanished into thin air. No one vanishes, especially not Sherlock. He's like a firework. Has to go off with a big bloody bang."

John filed away that description of Sherlock because it was absolutely spotless. The consulting detective, no matter what it was, always wanted to be noticed. Even the smallest of his doings had to be at least recognised by someone, though a majority of the time people grew tired of being startled every now and again and just accepted it without much acknowledgement. Maybe that's why Sherlock had looked at him that way when he'd complimented his talents; that look of pleasant surprise that someone was willing to praise him every time he deduced something. John made note also to make more comments...not all the time, no, he didn't want Sherlock's head to swell up too much but he wanted to make Sherlock feel that good more often than did before. Especially after all this was over.

"You need to get some rest, John," Mycroft said, grasping the doctor's shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. "We'll clear out in around half an hour."

John nodded numbly, not quite certain what had been said to him other than it had been delivered in a rather un-Mycroft manner. He sat down on the sofa; sitting appeared to be something he did commonly as of late. It was the only thing he could do whilst the rest of those, more capable than he, buzzed around him. He watched as they whispered in each other's ears, as they raised Sherlock's belongings to the light, some of which they dumped in plastic baggies to take away. John could only watch, barely containing himself. All he wanted to do was shout: "Don't touch that! He gets very weird about people moving his stuff!" but he knew he had no choice in the matter, telling himself that whatever it took to get Sherlock back, he would allow them to do what they deemed fit.

"Sir!" he heard someone cry from Sherlock's room.

Despite knowing he wasn't invited, by Mycroft or otherwise, John got up and followed after the older Holmes brother, ideas skimming through his minds like stones over still water, disturbing the tranquillity. The man looked questioningly at John when he came into the room, and glimpsed over at Mycroft who must've nodded for he just turned around and then back to face them with something sitting in his hands. John caught his breath.

He'd never done it before, and in all honesty it was the first time he'd seen something like this in person, but even he was able to deter what it was that was being extended out to Mycroft. Two baggies of cocaine, and the guy stepped aside to reveal six or seven more, some holding pills, other heroin. Mycroft inhaled a sharp breath like a balloon having being struck by a direct pin, and he took the man aside, whispering urgently in his ear.

John was only able to catch "You are not to breathe a word of this to anyone, you understand?"

The man agreed and left the room. John stiffly stepped forth, looking down on the bags of drugs lying like tiny see-through presents upon Sherlock's bed, slumped as if they were ashamed. Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and, seemingly realising John was present, narrowed his eyes. John understood that he too was sworn to secrecy, and he offered a slight nod in agreement. Mycroft left, calling downstairs that his brother's room was officially off-limits.

**[SH]**

John's stomach growled angrily and he checked outside again to see if Mrs Hudson had returned yet—assuming she'd gone anywhere at all. John had leapt to that conclusion as he hadn't seen or heard from her since he'd come back to Baker Street. He realised with a twist of surprise that that was only yesterday and he ran a hand over his face, clearing his throat just so he could make a sound. The silence was absolutely suffocating.

Mycroft and his 'band of merry men' as John liked to call them on account of their hopeless faces, had dispersed around four hours ago, though two still lingered outside in a car sidled up to the path to keep an eye on Baker Street. John felt the need to keep checking they were there because he really didn't want to be alone. Even the smallest of creaks set him on edge, and even when he was just sitting down in the armchair he kept looking up as if expecting Moriarty to be standing there. John was prepared for this, Sherlock's gun in hand. He couldn't express of explain why he felt such an urgency to shoot at the wall so someone would come running up so he could be accompanied by another human being for a while. Even better if it was Mrs Hudson, because then she may offer to make him something to eat. The fridge in 221b was, of course, barren and he was given explicit orders not to leave Baker Street once it got dark. All John could do, was sit there in torturous quiet, listening to his disgruntled stomach and waiting for sleep to steal him away.

His eyes were sore and burned whenever he blinked, yet he still couldn't bring himself to nod off. He felt like if he did, he would be stolen by something else entirely...or someone rather.

It wasn't until a quarter to midnight, did his eyelids begin to descend...

**[SH]**

Jim Moriarty sat in the corner of the room on the damp, carpeted floor, watching as Sherlock slept. The window that he'd boarded up, only allowed a skeletal ray of lamplight from outside to sneak in to lie across the detective's face like a beautiful scar. It didn't bother him that it was almost pitch black, just as long as he could see Sherlock's face. Jim absentmindedly rubbed his hands, which crusted with the other's dried blood, against one another slowly and in deliberate motions, breathing in deeply so he could feel the cold stale air slither down his throat and chill his chest.

He checked his watch. Exactly twelve minutes to midnight. It would be time soon. Any moment now. He had timed it perfectly. Right now, the doctor should be just about to sleep. No matter where it was he was sleeping, he would be able to hear this. The streets were dismally quiet, only the odd grumble of a car in the distance to prick the silence.

His heart pulsed in his chest, heavy with anticipation. A sneer tickled the corners of his mouth so he had no option other than to allow the laugh that was prodding him to foam out of him, quieting it by putting a hand to his lips in an almost coy manner. If there hadn't been for his ghastly intentions or the man lying bleeding to death a foot or so away from him, he would have looked the most charming and endearing gentleman in the world. But the facts remained.

Jim checked his watch again. Three minutes.

He climbed leisurely to his feet as if he was casually just getting up to stretch, and dusted down his clothes, evening the sleeves and righting his black tie. Jim indifferently walked towards the unconscious detective, crouching down beside him with his head cocked to one side in an inquisitive way, brushing the back of his hand against the other man's cheekbone. Jim admired the way Sherlock's eyebrows creased at the touch and how he turned his heavy head away from it. Moriarty found this alluring. It wasn't because of the innocence of it, not in the least. It was because Sherlock was still denying affection, and a part of him was relieved that his other half hadn't been distorted entirely. All the same, Sherlock was damaged now in his eyes and this instance of relief, was briskly assassinated.

Jim reached inside his pocket...

**[SH]**

There was a gunshot.

John would recognise that sound anywhere.

There was a second immediately after.

He bolted upright in his chair and sprinted over to the window, his knees sagging in protest to the abrupt movement. John squinted out of the windows that were misted with condensation. He wiped it away with his hand, feeling the chill of outside radiate through to his palm. He squinted out of the window, and saw instantly something was very wrong. One of the doors of the car where the two men were sitting, was left hanging open and there was no sight of either of the men who had been sitting in it the last time John checked around twenty minutes ago. He looked at the time to see it was one minute to midnight. Barely twenty minutes ago since he'd last checked on the guys outside.

John bolted downstairs, a trillion thoughts rattling in his skull as he ran. Well, there was only one word zipping through his mind like a comet over and over again. Sherlock...Sherlock..Sherlock...

**TBC**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I had to take a break from writing due to my exam on Wednesday, which took up a lot of my free time...so much so I practically became a recluse so I could study. The exam went well (I had to talk about theatre spaces for one hour, and Oscar Wilde in the second) and then after that I've been very sick with flu, which is still causing me some grief. I was inspired to finish this chapter today due to the new Sherlock clips released (if you haven't seen them already, go on YouTube; a user named romangirl88 has uploaded the two scenes. Quickly before they get removed!)**

**This chapter took me so long to write and I have to leave in a moment so I will only be briefly glancing it over for any major and embarrassing grammatical errors and so forth so I apologise if you are frankly disturbed by some of the errors in this chapter. I just wanted to upload it all as soon as possible as I've kept you lovely people waiting. **

**Thanks to everyone for the reviews, again, especially Momo9357 whose review, along with IcedTeaa's, made my day. I love reviews such as those, long and detailed. And in reply to your statement about me never stopping writing, I don't intend to. It is my ambition to be a published writer. It is something I am very keen on doing, and I've wanted to do it since I was a little girl and my great-grandparents used to urge me to write a story for them whenever I visited for them to read before I left. is a place for me to practice my writing, gain feedback, and just simply have fun toying with my favourite characters and stories.**

**I swear in the next chapter you will find out where Sherlock is. I know a lot of people have been inquiring about that and you will find out I promise. I hope it's a shock rather than an "Oh God this is bollocks" type deal. Either I should upload the following chapter sometime before Christmas (like, the 23****rd****) or Boxing Day when I will be depressed that Christmas is over. **

**I hope you all have a lovely Christmas or, if you don't celebrate Christmas, a lovely holiday and I will see you on the other side of 2012 when the new Sherlock season starts and completely erases the possibility of this fanfiction ever happening 8D enjoy. **

**M. Shane**


	13. Twelve: Don't You Dare Go Anywhere

_You say your time has come __**/ **__you're tired of waking up __**/ **__don't be obscene __**/ **__I can't conceive of living without you_

"Where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where oh where oh where is Sherlock...where could Sherlock be...?"

John staggered as his limbs came to an abrupt stop, almost losing his balance altogether. He gripped the railing for excess support, and his jaw clenched as what felt like chilly razor sharp nails dragged themselves down his spine. That voice was like acid being poured over his head, dribbling down his body leaving their hideous and blatant mark. The lump that found itself wedged tightly in his throat made him feel sick, and he had to fight every impulse he could not to just swing himself around to face whatever or whoever was standing behind him. He was now aware of someone standing behind him, the distance between them he could not tell but just knowing that he wasn't alone now was terrifying.

"Come to 221c...I have a little surprise for you, Doctor Watson."

"Is it a bullet with my name on it?" John spat out, hands clenched tightly at his sides. "What were those gunshots outside?"

There wasn't an answer, not a sound. He stiffly started to turn his head; he found it difficult as it felt as though someone was holding it to prevent him from looking over his shoulder. There was an empty space at the top of the stairs, and John realised he was alone. For a millisecond, he wondered if he'd merely imagined everything. That the shock of hearing the gunshots had somehow just startled him from his senses for a moment, and he even took one step down the stairs only to halt, hanging his head. No, it was definitely real. He desperately didn't want it to be. If it was, then it meant that Moriarty was here. He was here at Baker Street, playing a little game with him. John didn't want to play games. He wanted to go back to bed only to be woken up by the screeches of Sherlock's violin; he wanted to feel angry with the detective again and to share knowing glances again and to tell him what to do.

John gripped the railing hard and exhaled heavily, inhaling shakily. He turned himself around to still see no one there, but this time he noticed something. Planted on the floor at the top of the stairs, was a small bundle. John tentatively approached it, constantly looking left and right as a small child would when crossing the round just in case Moriarty would leap out from somewhere. Swiping his tongue over his dried chapped lips, John leaned down and collected the object on the floor, and immediately he realised what it was with a pang of shrill fear. Only when he brought he brought it close enough to his eyes, as it was extremely dark, did he recognise that he was holding Sherlock's scarf in his hands.

"You bastard..." John muttered to himself, squeezing the item of clothing in his hand. If someone else had been there to witness it, he would have felt embarrassed about this action, though right then John doubted that he would have cared if that had been the case.

His heart juddering in his chest like a hummingbird's, and his hands clammy and trembling violently, John let the scarf drop as he bolted up towards 221c...

**[SH]**

"It'll all be over soon," Jim breathed against Sherlock's cheek, sneering as he felt the shudders course through the detective's body. "If I know your dear doctor, he will be with us any second now."

Sherlock had never felt so tired in all of his life. All of his muscles felt stretched beyond their limits, each individual strand wrinkled, and throbbing in protest. His bones felt that upon the lightest of touches they would turn to dust. His organs were raw and stinging. His skin was drenched with sweat and was freezing cold, like he had just been unearthed from the depths of an icy lake. The blood was the only heat that he felt, and whenever he thought too long about it, he would feel lightheaded and his head would drop backwards to thud against the ground. In all honesty, he had never wanted it all to be over so badly before.

He wasn't taking anything that Jim was saying in, not until he heard the thumps of footsteps up the stairs and his heart stumbled in his chest and whatever blood he had left felt as if it had been drained from him entirely at that moment. Jim's face, on the other hand, flushed with anticipation, and his grip on the other's shoulder tightened.

"You hear that, Sherlock?" he whispered, kissing his brow softly. "He's coming to rescue you. He's really proved himself to be a loyal pet, hasn't he? We'd better get ready to greet him."

Sherlock was faintly aware that he was being pulled to his feet, which alone was a strikingly agonising task, yet all he could focus on was the sound of John coming up for him. John was coming to get him. He'd been waiting for this to happen, to see his friend's face again, but now it was the last thing he wanted. If he could muster it, he would scream at the top of his lungs for John to turn around and leave Baker Street altogether.

Jim pressed his cheek against Sherlock's once they were both on their feet, one arm wound around his waist, the other holding something alarmingly cold against his temple, which Sherlock recognised to be a gun. Something akin to a whimper drooled from the detective's numb lips, and he heard Jim chuckle darkly behind him.

Then there was John. Perspiration was glimmering against his forehead and his throat; his breaths were laboured, clearly running the whole way. His hair was unkempt, definitely sleeping before the gunshots. Bags hooded his eyes, he didn't get much sleep and hasn't recently. Hands shaking, badly, he's frightened. There's no sign of a gun on his person. He had lost weight, just a bit, but it was clear from the corners of his lips and his fingernails that he hadn't been eating recently. No sleep, no food, dishevelled...he was becoming more and more like Sherlock every day. Sherlock smiled slightly at that, but it was swiped from his face when the sheer look of panic sliced through John's features like a knife. Obviously, he'd just noticed the gun being held to Sherlock's head. John raised his hands a little in surrender.

"Please, I beg you please don't shoot," John said, his voice cracking and wavering.

Jim let out what could only be described as a giggle equivalent to that of a coy schoolgirl's. "Oh my you are fun," Jim said, even going as far as to wipe false tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes with the hand that was around Sherlock's waist, and then put it back again, tighter this time. "In a different way, of course. Like...a cracker kind of fun. I do hope you don't bang too soon, John, because otherwise I'll have to throw you away and that'll be-" he pulled a face. "—rather dull."

The criminal chose this moment to press his arm down on Sherlock's stomach, and a yelp of pain burst from the detective's mouth before he could seal his lips together like a barrier. John, looking frankly mortified at the sound, widened his eyes and tensed up, colour forsaking his face.

"Please—please don't-" John stammered. "I'll do anything please don't...please..."

"I'm not going to do anything, Johnny boy," Jim said coolly, lessening his pressure that he had applied to the detective's injury. "You're the one with the decision to make." He lavished John's bewildered and terrified expression. "I'm going to give you two options. Option one; you let me go. You let me leave Baker Street, and you can tend to Mr Holmes'—condition. You can save his life. Option two; you let him go. You come down to your flat to meet me, and you leave Sherlock here unattended. And just to make sure you don't cheat, because you know much I hate cheaters...MORAN!"

John flinched in surprise when a man clad in black stepped in from nowhere behind him, cradling a rifle in his arms as if he was holding his newborn child. John couldn't make out much in the dark, other than the pale piercing eyes that sat like two polished pebbles in the man's sockets.

"If you attempt to give Sherlock any medical attention before coming down to me if your decision is option two, then my dear friend, Moran here will put a bullet right through your skull," Jim made a popping sound with his mouth at the final part, beaming at the doctor and his companion. "Seeing as though I'm a very understanding and fair man, I will give you five minutes to make your decision."

Jim, after planting a tender kiss to Sherlock's neck over the bruise he'd left there before, let the other man go; literally dropping him to the ground like a ragdoll, he'd grown bored of. John grimaced, wanting to cover his eyes but not daring to, keeping his balled up fists firmly at his sides.

The consulting criminal dusted his hands together and sauntered over towards John with such a casual air it was as though he hadn't done a thing, like they were merely passing each other by as strangers often do. It was like he hadn't just kidnapped and hurt John's closest friend, amongst other things, that John wasn't yet sure of and hoped with every ounce of his being wasn't the case. John would have closed his eyes if he weren't so concerned that Jim would suddenly turn on him, change his mind, and shoot. John wanted to be ready if Moriarty wanted to try anything.

"Five minutes, Doctor Watson," Jim Moriarty reminded him, his hot breath crawling down the skin of John's throat like venom.

The two men regarded each other, each feeling an amount of loathing for the other. It claimed the atmosphere, a silence stealing the air that was only broken by the odd creak of the stairs and the groans from Sherlock; the latter John was trying to blot out.

"Keep an eye on them, Sebastian," Jim murmured as he passed, and he literally skipped down the stairs.

John did his best to pretend that Moran wasn't there watching him, as he crossed over to his friend, crouching down at his side. He couldn't see anything, so he wasn't sure what was causing Sherlock so much pain, though nonetheless it twisted his gut and his hands faltered over the other, not knowing where was okay to touch and where wasn't. John decided he had to collect Sherlock up into his arms, aware that the floors were damp and unceasingly uncomfortable.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," John said before winding his arm around the detective's back and, as considerately as possible, eased him upwards up onto his lap, ensuring that he had a good grasp on Sherlock.

Even though he was limp, head lolling back and right arm dragging, the detective was chillingly light to lift and hold, and John felt the first tug inside of himself, the first in a series that he would experience that night—or well, technically early morning. Sherlock's eyes parted slowly and he gave a closed mouthed half smile, which lasted for about half a second before he pressed his lips together tightly as he felt a twitch of pain.

John didn't know what to say. During the time the two were separated, John had regretted and dwelled on all the things he hadn't had chance to say to the younger man, but now they were reunited they had all abandoned him and dissolved into thin air. Everything sounded meagre, everything sounded pathetic, and the last thing he wanted was to be mocked. He was also scared, secretly, that his voice would crack and he may start to cry. A cocktail of relief and sheer panic shook up inside of him; it was so intense he could barely withstand it. He was on the brink of having Sherlock back, and the brink of losing him again. Not quite one or the other, and it was up to him where he would apply his weight in the end, leaning towards one of the two.

Instead of talking, John resorted to what he knew best. He scanned his medical eye over Sherlock, squinting in the very little lighting they were provided with, and then his eyes landed on it as if he had bumped right into a wall as he had been off looking elsewhere rather than looking where he was going. John breathed in a short sharp breath and trapped it in his mouth for a moment, hand hovering over the bottom of the blood soaked shirt. He could pretend it was just a scratch, but his knowledge informed him firmly that the amount of blood was from a more serious wound. He'd made up his mind right then. He would have to let Moriarty go.

John reached to undo the buttons to inspect the injury closer when a freezing cold hand clasped his own, halting his movement. The long slender fingers wound themselves around his hand like a pallid ribbon, and John's eyes met Sherlock's. No words were exchanged for the doctor already knew what was going to be asked of him, and his heart skipped a beat.

"Don't you dare," John murmured, doing his best to prevent his chin from quivering. "Don't you dare do this to me, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock, acting as though it was not already made clear and that his friend hadn't spoken, ran his thumb delicately over the roof of John's hand. "You have to go after him," he said quietly and hoarsely. His breaths were deep and short, revealing that talking was a strain.

"Shut up, I'm getting you to a hospital," John insisted. "I just have to stop the bleed-"

"John."

Much to his humiliation, a tear landed on the detective's hand and John's eyes became overwhelmed with them, so much so he had to rub his cheeks with the higher part of his sleeve, refusing to release his hold on Sherlock's hand.

"You can't let him—get away..." Sherlock said, bumping his forehead against John's arm in a soothing manner when he realised the army doctor was crying. "All he will do...is come back for us..."

"I'm not letting you do this," John partially sobbed out, and he was so ashamed that he looked away, not wanting to see that look of superiority or judgement in Sherlock's face.

"You have to, John. You have two minutes left before you must go..."

John let out a short, wet sounding laugh. "You're keeping time...of course you are..."

There was a pause. Sherlock swallowed hard and shifted his jaw. In a sense, he was signing his own death sentence—hell, he was even part of the firing squad. All the same, he knew there wasn't another way. Even if John chose to stay with him, it was unlikely, now this part hurt, that he would survive. He was feeling so numb, and his body was so tired. His brain, once so active and wired, was wanting a rest and the only way it would be granted such a privilege, was if Sherlock switched off. He couldn't look frightened, and he had to keep a level tone that left no gaps, no ways for John to persuade him to let him try to save him. In a couple of minutes, he would be left alone to die, and he felt winded by that fact. He subconsciously tightened his grip on John's hand, drawing the attention of the other.

"You know I'm right," Sherlock managed. "I will wait here for you."

"You can't promise that," John whispered, no longer caring that tears were cascading down his face. "You know you can't." He sniffed.

"I could never promise anything, John," Sherlock replied. "You knew that from the start, but you've always trusted me, you've always followed me. Don't stop doing that now."

John wanted some words of—what was the word, gratitude? No... but he wanted to say something that would express how much Sherlock meant to him, how much his world revolved around him, how much he needed him, how much he loved him. If he allowed those words to trip from his tongue, would he regret it? Would Sherlock even respond let alone reciprocate them? John didn't know how he loved Sherlock, or how he had come to love him, or even what sort of love it was. Despite this he knew for definite, he felt love.

"Time's nearly up," Moran barked out gruffly.

John started, almost forgetting completely that his moment with Sherlock was being observed. He felt uncomfortable now, painfully aware of how he was holding another man and that he was crying and that he was close to admitting that he loved him. Sherlock slid his fingers through the spaces between John's, their palms greeting. Sherlock's hand was trembling. John would have put it down to the loss of blood and the cold if it weren't for the pale eyes gaining extra gleam that was magnified by the darkness. John felt as though this moment was the very definition of heartbreak.

"If you go anywhere, I'll come after you and kick your arse," John warned half-heartedly.

Sherlock grinned, letting out a weak and brief laugh. "I know you would." He did too.

"Time's up," Moran said, making to step forward, entirely prepared to pry the two apart if it called for it.

However, that was unnecessary as John had already laid the detective back down with as much consideration and care as humanly possible, hands still tightly clasped. Then, like a rope being cut dead down the centre, the two fell away from each other. Feeling as though he was missing a limb, John turned around and walked away past Moran, who was bemused as he was half expecting to be forcing the yelling and kicking doctor out of the door. Moran cast a glance over his shoulder at the detective, who was lying very still on his back, and followed John out.

His breaths were the only sound, and they were growing more frantic by the second. Sherlock felt the hot moisture slide down the corners of his eyes and he had no strength left to even rid his skin of them. Instead, they were left to make their slow journey down his face and down the side of his throat, the trail they left behind turning cold.

**[SH]**

"I was scared you'd done the obvious and boring thing...I'm pleasantly surprised, Doctor Watson."

"Cut the crap," John muttered, hoping this would've been heard, but it seemingly hadn't as Jim Moriarty continued to roll the skull around in his hands, disinterested.

"I'm glad you came out to play," Jim continued, glimpsing up for the first time and that shark-like sneer prowled across his features, his dark eyes glinting with hidden thoughts and silenced laughs. "How does it feel leaving your friend behind to die?"

"Don't," John spat out, earning a raise of an eyebrow.

"You know how threats get me going," Jim giggled girlishly again. He tossed the skull up into the air and caught it, and then cast it aside. Tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked slowly forwards towards John. "Seb, stand outside the door and make sure no one gets in—or out."

John heard the man behind him shuffle out and then the door slam, causing him to flinch. Jim sat himself down on the table by the window, swinging his legs back and forth. He even patted the spot next to him for the doctor to join him, though John had no intention of abiding and he knew it. Jim beamed.

"Are you here to kill me?" Jim Moriarty inquired with such nonchalance, as one would ask what their plans for the day were.

"With my bare hands," John retorted, desiring something witty and intelligent similar to something Sherlock would say to come to him, yet it didn't. He stuck to what he knew, no matter how simplistic it sounded.

Jim laughed aloud, running a hand over his face and tugging down the flesh of his cheek, so the pink underbelly of his eye was revealed. He dragged his hand down his skin until he came to his own neck, drawing his nails down leaving those flaming red marks.

"I love it when you talk dirty," Jim teased. "Come on then, Johnny. Kill me with your bare hands. But you know—" and at this he leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. "You do realise that Sherlock will never forgive you for killing me. He wants to do it himself. He will never be able to forgive you for ruining_** our**_ game. _**Our **_game, not yours. He'll probably want to cut your face off so he'd never have to look at it again, because every time he does he'd know that you're the one that killed his only match. The only one who was equally as intelligent, if not more so." John made a scoffing sound, but his confidence was faltering. "He'd never forgive you. Can you live with that?"

**TBC**

_**Good place to leave it until I next have chance to update it. Tomorrow (Sunday 15**__**th**__** January) is my nineteenth birthday, as well as the dreaded final episode. I honestly cannot wait. There was such a large delay with this chapter, and I sincerely apologise, it won't happen again. Right before Christmas I had an exam and a blog entry due in on the same day, and so I gave myself a few days break for Christmas and to de-stress, and then Boxing Day I had to start my two assignments (also due in the same day), and I only just finished them in time. Since then I haven't really felt in the mood to write as I'd been doing so much of it, and I did write a version of this chapter that I utterly despised as it was such a letdown, even for me reading it back I felt disappointed.**__**I will update this sometime early next week, maybe even Monday as I intend to write tomorrow with my angst as my fuel. Sorry for a cliff-hanger again – **___

_**The lyrics at the start of this chapter are from a song called 'The Beacon' by A Fine Frenzy. It was on a loop as I wrote the scene between Sherlock and John; you only have to look at the lyrics to see a connection:**_

_You say you drag us down  
>No one should want you now<br>When I start to cry, you kiss my eyes and say  
>I'm not allowed to<em>_  
>Burning beacon in the night<em>_  
>Can't feel its heat, or see its light<br>That single solitary guide, it must get lonely there sometimes  
>You were a child forgot<em>_  
>Lessons of love untaught<br>Now no embrace can quite replace__  
>The one that never found you<em>

_**Please listen to the song if you wish to of course whilst reading that scene. Thank you very much. **_


	14. Thirteen: The Fall

"I love it when you talk dirty," Jim teased. "Come on then, Johnny. Kill me with your bare hands. But you know—" and at this he leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. "You do realise that Sherlock will never forgive you for killing me. He wants to do it himself. He will never be able to forgive you for ruining_** our**_ game. _**Our **_game, not yours. He'll probably want to cut your face off so he'd never have to look at it again, because every time he does he'd know that you're the one that killed his only match. The only one who was equally as intelligent, if not more so." John made a scoffing sound, but his confidence was faltering. "He'd never forgive you. Can you live with that?"

John didn't want the doubt to rise inside of him, but he couldn't prevent it, and Jim, seeing through him like a glass of water, knew it wasn't long before it would overwhelm him and spill over. The consulting criminal gave his legs a great swing forwards and then sprang off the desk, landing soundly on his feet, creating only the slightest of creaks. John involuntarily stepped backwards, and then only just managed to prevent himself from taking a second one as Jim abruptly swept up the gap between them, bringing them uncomfortably close together.

Jim Moriarty's face was inches away from John's, and a sneer crawled across his face like a spider. "You wouldn't dare, would you?" he purred. "You wouldn't dare do a thing that could hurt your—should I say...relationship with Sherlock Holmes." There was a trace of mocking in his tone when he uttered the word 'relationship' and John tilted his eyes upwards to meet the other's looming, deadly gaze. Jim's face suddenly shattered like glass and the corners of his mouth were tugged downwards, a crease between his eyebrows. "Why did you have to ruin him?" he sounded on the verge of tears. "Why did you have to go and—" he turned away as though he could no longer stand the sight of John, running a hand through his short dark hair, tugging harshly at the roots, slapping the base of his palm against his temple with a small _clap_, inhaling a trembling breath.

John thought he looked like a child who had just heard the dreaded word 'no'; a child who realised that he couldn't have his way, and the hurt that came from hearing that word, seared within, threatening to bellow out of him.

Then Jim swung around, charging forwards and John staggered backwards in shock to find the other man's hand balled up in his shirt, tugging him forwards so they were, again, incredibly close to one another. John thought the words "easy now" skidded out of his lips, but the amplified shout of the criminal drowned it out, so he couldn't be sure if he spoke at all.

"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!" Moriarty screamed, eyes bulging, temple rising, spit stinging against John's chin.

John's heart banged against his ribs as if it was trying to break them so it could escape, get itself as far away from Jim Moriarty as possible. John wished he could do that...beat down the door and run. However, he never would have been able to...and on reflection, neither would his heart. His heart wouldn't abandon Sherlock—and neither would he. His mind sprinted over to Sherlock now, and he sickened himself by fancying he could even hear the detective's last breaths, last heartbeats. It turned his sweat that was clinging against his flesh startlingly cold, and, without contemplating or pausing to think, he acted on pure instinct and brought his hands to impact with Moriarty's chest, shoving him away.

Jim stumbled a little, and at first, his features went lax, stunned. Then he straightened himself up and laughter frothed from his lips...loud, garish, blood curdling laughter. "That's the spirit, my boy!" he exclaimed, stretching his arms out as though he were beckoning him for an embrace. He then brought them together in applause, even whistling as he did so.

John stood there, trying to minimize the shivers that rolled down his form so the other wouldn't notice just how terrified he was. What was Sherlock thinking, believing he could—could beat this man...wait, not even a man... How could he? There was nothing he could do to inflict pain, nothing at his disposal other than he could stand his ground for a while.

"Oh boy, at least you're _**trying**_ not to be boring," the criminal chuckled, digging his hands back into his pockets. "I tell you, Sherlock has been a bit dull lately. All he does is lie there. I had to entertain myself most of the time." Jim winked, bringing forth a pack of mint chewing gum and popping one into his mouth. He extended the packet. "Want one?" when he received no response, he threw one down at the doctor's feet and returned the packet to its home.

"What do you mean you had to—" John couldn't bring himself to complete the sentence. It felt like he was being strangled, his own body beseeching him not to ask, not to pry, and to remain ignorant.

Jim tapped the side of his nose. "Never you mind, Doctor Watson. Nobody likes a nosy Parker, now do they?"

Whatever it was that he was implying John didn't like it, not one bit. He shuffled from one foot to the other, considering just going for it and just punching the crap out of the bastard and see how far that got him. He wanted to yet his feet were caught to the ground. He wouldn't admit it, but he was bloody scared of Moriarty. He wanted to keep some sort of distance between them, though Jim seemed to enjoy closing the space and invading his personal space.

"I will say this," Jim said, closing in again like a shark delivering a second bite just to get a good taste of the blood to decide whether to treat itself to a third, and devour it whole. "You ruined Sherlock for me...so I ruined Sherlock for you."

John rarely ever lost it. He had somehow managed to suppress his anger no matter what was thrown at him. No matter how many times he found bottles of booze in Harry's flat when she'd promised she'd quit, no matter how many times he saw Anderson smirk behind Sherlock's back, no matter what people said about him or about Sherlock for that matter...John had always found a way to keep calm. That instant, that tiny voice that usually encouraged him to take a deep breath and to cool off, was replaced by just pure loathing and fury.

He reached out and clutched Moriarty's shirt in a similar fashion that the criminal had done to him, and slammed his fist directly into the other man's face. John didn't release his hold, jerking the criminal upright after delivering the blow. Jim was still sneering. John lashed out a second time, his knuckles smarting as he grazed the skin, even drawing small specks of blood to the surface. Jim's nose was trickling vibrant strings of blood, but he hardly reacted to it, licking it up when it reached his lips.

"You're ever so handsome when you lose your temper," Jim said quietly, and then his eyes darkened and he spat the blood that was in his mouth into the doctor's face.

The saliva may as well have been a burning chemical against John's skin. He longed to wipe it away but knew if he dared loosen his grip on the other man, he would be in danger, so he allowed it to grow cold and dribble down his cheek. Jim bared his teeth as he beamed at him; John realised the criminal was quaking with exhilaration.

"What you waiting for, big boy?" Moriarty asked. He leaned closer so the tip of his nose lightly brushed John's, and then he shouted, "HIT ME AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN HIT ME HARDER!"

Despite wanting to, John didn't want to do anything Moriarty asked of him, and the demand was so disturbing he pushed him away again in disgust, letting go. He glimpsed at his knuckles to find his hand shaking violently, dark bruises blossoming. Before he could gather what had happened, he felt a fist collide with his chin and he was permitted to fall backwards with a loud thud, his head hitting the floor hard.

His mind went foggy and sluggish, his vision slipping in and out of focus as he stared with glossy eyes up at the ceiling, watching it move like a wave over his head. Moriarty's face penetrated his view, glowering down at him, a droplet of blood falling from his nose and landing on the ground by John's head.

"You should do as I ask," Jim remarked in a sinister way, straightening out his clothes and tutting at the blood stains on the white of his shirt. He rubbed his nose against his sleeve reluctantly and, so to demonstrate how he felt about John making him ruin his favourite blazer, brought his foot down with great force onto the doctor's hand.

A scream rang out in Baker Street and it took John a while to realise it had been torn from his own throat like a hook, leaving it ragged and broken. He scrunched up his face in agony as Jim refused to let up. Then he applied further weight—

"Please, please oh God please stop..." John whimpered out, knowing that if his fingers were close to breaking.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, you know it's a two way street with me," Jim sighed as if he were simply scorning a child for forgetting to add please at the end of their sentence. "I asked you to hit me, which you refused, now you ask me to stop. I guess in order to make things even is if I do as you did mere seconds ago..."

"Please...please don't..." John gasped out, eyes running, breathing in reverse.

Jim clenched his jaw and raised his foot, bringing it back down with all his strength, and the bones crunched beneath his shoe like snow.

Sherlock heard John's cry from 221c, and everything halted. He turned his head so he was looking at the closed door.

Moriarty strolled back over to the fireplace, his face that was bright red, beginning to relax into a placid looking manner. He even started nosing through some of the books on the bookshelves, taking one out and flicking through the pages. John grasped his injured hand, further bruises shadowing his flesh, his fingers beginning to swell. He didn't care if he was crying or if he looked weak. All there was in his world right then was pain, this blinding, dizzying pain and he was on the brink of being sick and passing out.

"You're starting to bore me," Jim commented, glancing over his shoulder at the smaller man, who had gathered himself up on his knees and was holding his abused hand close. "I insist you do something entertaining soon or else I'll have to make things interesting."

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?" John exclaimed, turning his head ajar to look at the criminal. "WHAT IS THE POINT OF ALL THIS?"

Jim faintly smiled. "Your brain really is slow. Plodding along like a little donkey." He clucked his tongue to mimic the sound of a donkey's hooves. He put the book back in its place and took his seat on the table once more, hands clasped between his knees. "I don't want anything really. Just—" he shrugged, pursing his lips and looking around. "A hobby I guess you'd call it."

"This..._**this**_ is a hobby?" John choked out, clenching his eyes shut and grimacing.

"I tried train spotting," Jim offered, and then he grinned. "But I just kept thinking about how I could blow them all up. My hobby is chaos. Like Sherlock's is understanding things...and like yours is..." he frowned as if in thought. "Do you even have a hobby?" when John didn't answer, he waved it off. "Anyway, doesn't matter now. The game's getting dull. It's almost my curfew, playtime has to stop soon."

"Why don't...you just sod off then?"

"Oh no, the end of the game is only made official when there's been some blood spilled. Don't worry, my dear...not long now."

John sank back down, his head spinning too much that it felt like his very skull was rotating under the flesh. It was right then that he noticed it. In the corner of his eye, he saw something dark hiding under the armchair with its back to the kitchen. He gulped when he saw it glimmer as he shifted his head ever so slightly, and he knew immediately that it was Sherlock's gun. He'd put it down before he'd fallen asleep, keeping it close at hand though out of sight if anyone burst in on him in an attempt to attack. John leaned his eyes over to Jim's direction, scarcely moving his head so not to draw attention to the fact he was looking, to see that the criminal was poring over some book he'd picked up off the shelf. John knew it wouldn't be long before the criminal grew bored again and would glance up to see him crawling across the floor to get a gun. Did Moriarty even have a weapon on him? John mentally groaned as he thought how Sherlock would know, how Sherlock would estimate how many seconds he had to get a hold of the weapon before being stopped, and what he should do once he had the damned thing in his hands.

Would John be able to shoot when it came to it? It wasn't so much his moral code restraining him, because Moriarty fit the definition of deserving death and a hell of a lot more in John's eyes. It was that nagging idea that Sherlock would hate him and wouldn't be able to forgive him. Yet if that was the case, why did he ask John to follow him rather than letting him go?

Fingers pulsing with a radiating ache, his heart wedged tightly in his throat like a sharp-sided cube; beads of perspiration sliding down his forehead, John made his decision.

Ignoring the pain stretching up his arm and throbbing at the back of his head, John crawled as fast as he could towards the chair. He stretched his arm out and wrapped his fingertips around the butt of it, dragging it towards himself. John didn't dare wonder if Moriarty was watching him, if he was aware of what he was doing. He chose to focus instead on getting the gun and pointing it, that was all he had to do. Using his good hand to hold it, John raised his torso, gun pointing directly at Jim Moriarty, who was grinning inanely with his hands held up in surrender.

"Though I do find this highly entertaining," he said, his gum squelching beneath his teeth. "I recommend you put the gun down and try to be a little more inventive."

John narrowed his eyes, trying to even out his breathing as he eased himself up to his feet, walking over to the criminal. "You're going to let Sherlock go..." he said slowly, as it took a great amount of effort to prevent his voice from wavering. He wanted to do all he could to stop Moriarty from seeing that he was absolutely petrified. "You're going—going to let everyone go. D-Do you understand..." he cringed as he stammered.

"You think you can threaten me with that, Doctor Watson?" Jim inquired, and then, to John's horror, pressed his forehead against the barrel of the gun. "Go on then. Pull the trigger, will you? I dare you. I double dare you."

John swiped the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. The most mortifying aspect of the entire situation, was that the only thing John could possibly threaten James Moriarty with, was death and even that...even such a thing was greeted warmly by the consulting criminal. Jim didn't care if he lived, he didn't care if he died—for some reason, this bothered John. It bothered him, because he wanted to hear the bastard beg, he wanted to hurt him as much as possible for what he'd done to both him and Sherlock. He wanted Moriarty to suffer, to feel remorse and regret over all the terrible crimes he'd committed.

Nevertheless, John had no other option...

John breathed in deeply, the sound of the criminal chewing lazily on his gum the only thing he could hear. Jim just kept grinning. John pulled the trigger. He shut his eyes, waiting for the bang and the jolt. Instead, the sound he heard, twisted his stomach into an icy knot. He heard a click. Peeling his eyes open, John saw Moriarty's face still intact, leering up at him, laughter waltzing boldly in those black pits of his eyes.

"I was here for five minutes, Johnny boy," Jim murmured. "More than enough time for me to find the gun and take the bullets out."

John's world deflated. For some reason he kept the gun held to the criminal's head, as if the bullets would suddenly return home and he could pull a trigger and hear the shot crack the silence that was eating him up. Tears of frustration collected in his eyes, though he didn't grant them permission to fall, so they just burned there, blurring his vision. Sherlock probably would have laughed if he'd witnessed that...rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation, then give an elongated account as to how he'd known the gun was unloaded the instant he walked into the room.

"As hilarious as that was, I'd say it was time for us to put an end to all this," Jim Moriarty said lowly, no hint of laughter in his voice now as he snatched the weapon from John's limp fingers and tossed it aside. "Sebastian! Your services are required!"

"You're not even going to finish me off yourself?" John let out a short, bitter laugh. "You may as well. You've done everything you could have possibly done to hurt me..."

"I told you, I don't like getting my hands dirty with pointless people's blood," Jim pulled a face as though the very idea repulsed him. Then he frowned at the door. "SEBASTIAN!" he boomed.

No response.

Moriarty moved forwards, and John stole the opportunity, his final feeble attempt. He bolted forwards, a man with nothing left to lose, and wound his fingers around the criminal's throat, disregarding the agonizing creak of his broken bones. Jim seemed more irritated by this rather than concerned, and jerked his knee up, striking the doctor's ribcage. John winced but didn't loosen his grip, tightening it even, refusing to let go. Jim, sensing that the other's hold wasn't going to let up easy, began to punch and hit him, calling for Moran to come in.

The door slammed open. John felt a shiver tingle up his spine, as he knew that Moriarty's man was standing behind him, ready to embed a bullet in him. Despite this, he kept his clutch on the criminal's throat, hoping that at least he could bring the other with him. Moriarty went still. John chanced a glimpse upwards, hoping that he had succeeded in his plight, to see the criminal's face turning partially blue but he was still alive. John looked over his shoulder to see a group of men standing there, and at the front of them, stood Mycroft Holmes.

"Let him go, John," Mycroft requested evenly. "We'll deal with him now." When John only blinked dazedly at him, the older Holmes sibling rolled his eyes and added, at a slower pace that even someone as simple as the doctor could understand. "Let him go otherwise we can't get a clear shot."

It took a lot out of John to actually release Moriarty, feeling a brew of relief and, oddly enough, disappointment, being stirred within him. He met the criminal's gaze. Those eyes locked with his own, and his blood turned blisteringly hot. He lessened his grip and then dropped his hands altogether. Jim hardly reacted, though John noticed the way his chest was heaving, wolfing in the oxygen like a parched man would water. John went to turn away and then brought his fist directly into Moriarty's abdomen. When the criminal involuntarily leaned forward, John hissed in his ear: "I hope you rot for all you've done".

He paid no heed to Mycroft's irritable remarks, and John reluctantly removed himself from the criminal, allowing himself to be led away by someone, who was whispering frantically into his ear.

"We'll get your fingers seen to," the man was saying softly.

"Hang on, just give me a second," John replied distantly. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to see this. He wanted to know for certain that Moriarty was going to be killed, and not just receive some lie from Mycroft to disguise the fact that he escaped—again.

The guy glanced over to his boss, at a loss of what to do. John saw Mycroft nod in the corner of his eye, and made a mental note to profusely thank him later for granting him this.

"James Moriarty," Mycroft practically growled, blatantly livid. "I do not care how much heat I will get from doing this. I promise you, I will enjoy it."

Jim nursed his abused neck, yet that antagonizing sneer didn't fade. "I took your brother away, Mr. Holmes," he said croakily. "I can take your enjoyment away from you too."

Mycroft smiled. "I highly doubt that."

Jim Moriarty quirked up his eyebrow and then gave a salute with his hand, body straight and rigid as a soldier. His eyes never once left John's, not even as he threw himself backwards to shatter the glass window behind him. No one uttered a word. Just the crash of the glass filled the air, the tinkling of the shards that reached the ground sounding like bells. Jim fell backwards and out of sight.

One or two of Mycroft's men sprinted forward to ensure the criminal had met the concrete ground below, and then cast their boss a look over their shoulders, giving tiny nods. Mycroft stepped forwards to check for himself.

The relief stole over John like powerful pain medication, and his knees sagged. He dropped to the ground, supported by unseen hands. That was that...Jim Moriarty was dead...he was dead...he was gone...

Mycroft's face crumpled up, the mask he had adopted as a second layer of skin forgotten. He mumbled something to those who surrounded him, who then sprinted off down the stairs. Mycroft pressed his hands together, his long fingers greeting in a steeple, and tucked it neatly under his chin, closing his eyes. It was over, and even Mycroft Holmes couldn't repress his relief.

John found himself being eased up onto his feet, and though his shoulders felt lighter of a heavy burden, the remainder of his body still weighed him down. The exhaustion and pain that had piled itself up, was now teetering and, bit by bit, was tumbling down, and the rubble was oddly heavier than the stack itself. He knew that once he had been granted a few hours of rest and a generous dose of pain medication, he would be okay.

That was then, with a hideous blow, John remembered that Sherlock was still lying up there, probably dying or worse. Shaking himself loose of his human crutches, he made his way up the stairs and staggered to an abrupt halt when he saw Sherlock lying there at an odd angle. One arm was lying across his stomach, the other at his side, one leg was bent, and the other was stretched out.

"Jesus..." John breathed and rushed forwards to the detective. He wasn't sure what to do, whether he should gather the man up in his arms or whether that would inflict even further damage. John took Sherlock's wrist and checked for a pulse to find one flickering faintly there like the flame of a candle that was being battered by the wind. When John looked at Sherlock's face, he found to his relief, that the other's eyes were partially open and watching him. "What on earth were you doing?" John said, trying to sound angry though only managing to sound broken.

"I heard you..." Sherlock responded faintly. He stretched out his fingers, revealing his pale palm. John clasped his hand with his uninjured one, and Sherlock visibly relaxed at the contact.

"So you decided to crawl down the stairs, you bloody—" he cut off as his eyes fell upon the puddle of blood that was gathering beneath the detective. John's mouth hung open in a muted gasp, subconsciously squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"HELP!" he cried over his shoulder, the tears he'd been restraining now tearing down his face.

He needn't have, as what he assumed was paramedics were already rushing up the stairs. John looked back at the detective, watching numbly as he was gently peeled away from him and as strangers began to see to Sherlock, exchanging quiet private words that they didn't care to share with John, and looking very grim at the scene in front of them. As they couldn't bring the stretcher up the stairs, one of paramedics collected the thin consulting detective up in their arms like he was a small child, breaking through the thin crowd to lead the way down the stairs.

John nudged his way through, also, so he was the one behind Sherlock, and managed to reach out to reclaim the detective's hand. "You listen here," John said, hoping the younger man was listening. "You better be okay. Because—" his voice broke. "I don't know what I'd do without you...you just think about that, alright? You hear me, Sherlock Holmes...you understand..." the cold night air struck his face like a slap, and he felt someone touch his chest, holding him back.

John held onto Sherlock's hand for as long as he possibly could, until in the end he was only holding onto his fingers. He wasn't sure if it was a figment of his imagination or not, but he could have sworn that Sherlock gave his fingers a frail squeeze before they were, once again, forced to let each other go.

**TBC**

_**I don't know about you, but the final episode of Sherlock season two had me in fits of tears, and has thus been the fuel to me in writing this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, and there will be a couple more chapters following this, revealing details such as what happened to Moran and Mrs Hudson, how Mycroft got there, what will become of Sherlock and so on. I hope I haven't inflicted further emotional damage, though I admit the picture of John holding onto Sherlock at the end did make a small dent on me. **_

_**The following chapter will be uploaded sometime soon, yet I am not certain when as this week is my last week off university and this weekend, starting from Friday, is a long weekend treat from my girlfriend for my birthday, which was on the 15**__**th**__** January—so my birthday was very depressing as that was the night of the last Sherlock episode of season two. I will probably be writing when I'm back at university, depending on whether my timetables have changed, so please be patient and keep reviewing, your reviews are all so lovely and greatly appreciated. **_


	15. Fourteen: Don't Go Without Me

**This is the third attempt to write this chapter, it really hasn't been easy hence the delay. I've just been trying to perfect it and hopefully, it is just right and isn't entirely awful. Thank you for the patience, for the reviews, for the favourites, just for keeping up with this and being supportive. **

"Please! He's my friend-he's my friend..."

John tried to clamber into the ambulance that Sherlock had just been loaded in, this cold whirring panic stealing over him when the notion of being apart from the detective struck him. Someone grasped his shoulder, and then someone else held his arm and, gently, pried him away. He was numb to the exasperated shouts from the paramedics inside the vehicle that were telling the others to move John so they could get Sherlock to the hospital as quickly as possible. John was numb to these words until these ones claimed the air.

"—do you want this man to die?"

John froze. He wasn't certain if it was directed at him, or the men and women behind him who were now peeling him away from the inside of the ambulance like a plaster, but nonetheless it made his heart glitch. The doors slammed on him before he was barely out, and then it started and tore off, the sirens screeching. John's breathing turned thick as if the oxygen was clotted and not stirred thinly enough.

The first rays of daylight peered nervously through the blackness of night, checking to see if the coast was clear so it could come out and declare a new day had begun. The ground was gleaming, slick with rain that had now ceased to fall, and although everything was over, John still felt he was dragging the remains of yesterday's terror with him. He hadn't yet let it go, and he wasn't sure, when he would be able to. When he'd be able to stuff all of those events into the past and focus solely on the future. He couldn't even focus on that, he couldn't focus on the fact that Moriarty was gone or that he had his friend back. All he could think about was that he wouldn't ever be able to move forward if Sherlock died, if that man's heart, whose existence had been the focal point of debate for many years, somehow stopped, John's life would along stop with it.

John's legs sagged beneath him as if a screw connecting the joints was removed without his knowledge, and he crumpled down to the ground. The dampness soaked through his trouser legs, nipping spitefully at his vulnerable skin, and he was dimly aware of people flocking around him, asking him if he could stand. He gave a short twitch of a shake of the head, and it drooped, his forehead softly banging against somebody's shoulder. John closed his eyes, hearing the world rattle loudly around him and not wanting to be a part of it, not at all curious as to what was going on.

Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay...

For me, Sherlock, please...please be okay...

**[SH]**

It was more of a sensation that of which he was experiencing. He felt his eyeballs twitch in their sockets yet all remained decorated exclusively black, and not even a ghost of a light tinted his lids. It felt like someone was gripping tightly onto his upper arms, holding onto him with all their might as if he would suddenly gasp into a cloud of dust and disappear for good. He wondered if his body would dissolve like that, just break apart into a trillion flakes, and scatter themselves everywhere. He wanted to, for some absurd reason. He wanted that to happen to him. The only way to describe it is that his insides felt shredded up. If a piece of paper were torn to shreds, no one would even bother attempting to fix it back together. It would be thrown away, so why should anybody try to put him back to one piece? Sherlock didn't feel in any way shape or form whole.

The only sight he was capable of beholding, were fragments of memories that scratched his brain like shards of glass being sprinkled over it. They weren't even precisely his memories; it was more of an out-of-body experience as he saw his own back having fingers dragged down it, as he saw his own head slumping lazily away unable to sustain the weight. The only vision that felt his own was the one where he brought his own hands to his eyes to find them stained with blood, his blood.

It was uncomfortable witnessing these images and he wanted to delete them but was unable to, as he couldn't find them once they cut across his mind. They would disappear as soon as they occurred, leaving this burning trace behind. That was what Sherlock truly wanted to erase. The mark they left on him was so hideous and unbearable. He hadn't a clue how long he laid victim to these dreams, but it felt as though it had gone on for years, and all knowledge of time was a dirty smear.

**[SH]**

Mycroft's appearance in the hospital startled many of the doctors who had, in the past, confronted his intimidating manner. He'd only visited this specific hospital once before, when Sherlock had been here when the pool had been bombed, and that one single visit alone, was enough to have the doctors excuse themselves into patients' rooms to pretend they had urgent work to attend to, and even for one nurse to let out a tiny squeak and scuttle off in the opposite direction.

Only one doctor approached him, albeit with knocking knees and a brow coated in perspiration, clipboard trembling in his hands. Mycroft regarded him, taking in the information like one would when reading a brief summary of a book. Good education (though still dim witted), expecting first daughter, been a doctor for just under a year therefore not qualified.

When the man went to open his mouth, Mycroft cut him off bluntly. "You won't do, send someone else up with a bit more intelligence please."

The doctor blinked and looked stung. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am more than qual—"

"Just. Do. As. I. Ask." Mycroft snarled through ground teeth, leaning ever so slightly forwards to loom over the other.

Beetroot red, the doctor handed over the charts to Mycroft gingerly and then skirted around him, putting as much space between then as possible.

Shifting his jaw like he'd bitten into something hard and distasteful, Mycroft felt the immense weight sinking down inside of him. The last time he was in this position, the last time he'd nearly lost Sherlock—it'd nearly killed him. He'd never admit it, he'd never put his hands up to it, but he'd watched his little brother almost die too many times...four to be exact. The first two were on Sherlock's own accord; the other two were because of Moriarty. It was intensely painful for him to stand here again in a hospital, deeming every doctor useless when it came to securing his brother's continuing existence. He knew that if they failed, he would feel that blame, that blame that he didn't find someone better. As selfish as it sounded, Mycroft didn't want that guilt.

**[SH]**

His eyes eventually creaked open, and the sight of the white ceiling poured over his face like cold water. He stared for a couple of seconds without blinking, his eyeballs turning stale. He just wanted to drink in reality.

His brother was sitting at the foot of his bed, reclined in a chair reading a newspaper as if he were merely in a waiting room awaiting for his named to be called so he could get his appointment over and done with. Despite this being somewhat of a harsh interpretation on Sherlock's part, he noted that Mycroft Holmes had most likely not left his bedside. He needn't deduce this from the fact that the clothes were at least three days old and the hands shaking ever so slightly indicating lack of food, the newspaper he was poring over was battered from plenty of folding and unfolding, and from being so thoroughly read. He knew because Mycroft had done it before.

"Careful, Mycroft, you worry if showing," Sherlock huskily commented. He strained his voice by uttering these six words, and he grimaced as he wondered how he would cope with being unable to speak at length for a while.

Mycroft raised his brows, creasing his high forehead as he folded the newspaper in half with a loud rustle. "Well, that was a tad kinder than what you said last time."

"What did I say last time?"

"Piss off."

The siblings caught each other's eye and for a split second, the hospital eroded away so it was just a setting, merely a space in which this moment was being exchanged and they both shared laughter for the first time in years. It was only a brief instant, that reluctantly passed into an awkward silence as the white walls raised themselves up again, and the noise of the living and breathing hospital sounded in the halls.

Sherlock eased himself upwards into a sitting position, that was bowed and uncomfortable but unlike in past occasions, Mycroft didn't care to ask his brother to amend his posture. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft licked his dry lips prior to speaking. "I'm visiting my little brother," he answered softly, reclaiming his umbrella that had laid dormant at his side as he had been reading, twisting it round in a nervous manner. "Isn't that what family are supposed to do on occasions such as these?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You didn't visit the last time I was in the hospital. I know you came here for a reason." When his brother went to deny these accusations, Sherlock added, "I'm sure the office would want you back as soon as possible, _dear brother_," he bit these final words out sourly. "So don't procrastinate. What do you have to say?"

Mycroft swallowed hard as he sealed his lips, and he turned away to glower off into space. He looked utterly defeated, and hesitant to reveal the true purpose to his presence at Sherlock's bedside. It was as though he had wanted a fleeting moment of playing older brother, a real older brother. He hadn't really had the chance to fill out that role growing up. He fulfilled the role of mother more than anything, a fact that Sherlock resented him for. Any attempts he made at being the reliable, devoting older brother, were always torn to bits the minute Sherlock had figured out what he was trying to do, like Sherlock was batting him down, telling him he'd had his chance and it was too late, so he needn't bother.

"You need to disappear, Sherlock," Mycroft explained lowly, rising to his feet.

Sherlock frowned for a millisecond and then it clicked in his brilliant mind. He grinned widely, which looked particularly unsettling with his ashen complexion, grey shrouded eyes and gaunt features. "Ah I see."

"Moriarty has many men at his disposal," Mycroft pressed on, approaching the younger Holmes. "Although he is dead, he is sure to have left orders to them to finish you off if he failed to do so. He wouldn't allow his only—his only equal to live whilst he did not. You need to disappear for a while. I have people ready for the job of faking your death certificate, and an identity for you to adopt, at least until they forget about you."

"They'd never forget me," Sherlock was shaking his head, shoulders bobbing slightly in quiet laughter. He glanced up at his brother, who looked furious. "You want me to pretend to be dead? You want me to go into hiding until this whole thing blows over like some bad storm?"

Mycroft shifted his jaw. "I need you to do this, Sherlock. If not for me, then for Mummy..."

Sherlock's features darkened. "Don't play dirty, Mycroft. Don't you dare bring her into this just to bully me into going with your plans." Mycroft blushed at this. "You want me to take John into hiding too?"

"No, as a matter of fact, the doctor must be convinced that you are deceased. Moriarty had no interest in John, he won't be a target, but he needs to believe that **you** are dead. If he believes, Moriarty's men will believe." Sherlock went very still. "If you continue to—**exist **so to speak in the public eye, John will be at risk. If you ceased to exist, he will be protected."

Sherlock's voice came out thin and shattered, sharply puncturing Mycroft's eardrums and thus injecting him with a due amount of vast guilt. "I never thought you'd do this to me, Mycroft." He'd never heard Sherlock sound so hurt, so blatantly injured in his tone. He cast his eyes down. "The one person I care about more than anyone..." Sherlock bit his bottom lip hard. "You know he's the only one...you **know** how much he..." he trailed off, unable to finish.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft offered sincerely. "But you know I'm right, which is why it hurts so much. Why should John's world stop...he has family he will hurt if he disappears, Sherlock...friends...the few people you are capable of hurting will know, Mummy and I."

"What about John? What would this do to him?"

Mycroft felt indescribably horrific, like he was a poison setting into his little brother's life. He knew Sherlock wouldn't believe him if he told him, but he was pained by the entire situation. He was pained by the concept of giving his brother this agonizing choice, the choice to abandon the only person he'd cared for or the choice to stay with them only to lose them to someone else. Either Sherlock 'died' or John did, and the latter would be for real.

"He'll be looked after," Mycroft turned his back to him and drifted around the room aimlessly. "I give you my word, I will continue to watch over him, keep you..." he searched for the correct word. "...informed."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt his entire form sag down, sinking into the bed he was once keeping afloat upon. The gradual pain zipped gratingly across his chest, the knowledge that either way he was going to lose John too much to bear. His 'death' wouldn't be permanent. When it all blew over, he could return...but he had no idea when that would be, and John would never forgive him.

**[SH]**

"Where's Sherlock?"

Lestrade started at this, letting out a short "Jesus" when he saw that John's eyes were open and staring directly at him. Grimacing as he gently stroked his own wounded shoulder, Greg hesitated, knowing that the doctor wouldn't and couldn't be fed false words of comfort. He repressed the urge to change topic to state that there was a bit of déjà vu in this scene they were playing out now, and instead mulled over what he could say.

"Still unconscious," he offered in the end. "But eh, he's still alive if that's what you're wondering."

"Where is he?" John said again, jolting up in his bed. His heart skittered in his chest, the image of Sherlock bleeding profusely on the staircase embedded like a blade in his mind. He could almost still feel the blood staining his hands and even checked them, rubbing them hard against the sheets despite not seeing anything. Why was this man's blood always on his hands?

"Whoa take it easy, mate," Greg rose to his feet as John made to stand though staggered instead, directly into the detective inspector's arms. "What do you think you're doing?" he added firmly as the doctor weakly shook him loose.

"I need to find him," John stated this as if there was no question about it. When Greg stood in front of him, blocking his route, he narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Don't try to stop me, detective inspector."

"There's nothing for him you can do right now," Greg insisted desperately, contemplating reaching out to offer a soothing touch but discarded it briskly. "You need to fix yourself up first and you're not going to do that by...by being a bloody idiot."

John flushed at the remark. "I need to be with him...you have n..." he exhaled heavily through his nose, clearing his throat and hung his head, suddenly unable to look the detective inspector in the face. He puffed out his chest and gradually looked up again. "You have no idea what it's been like...not knowing where he is or if he's okay and right now...no matter if it's bad I need to be there so I know. I don't want to be told. I want to be there when it happens."

"When what happens, John?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know," John admitted. "Either he wakes up..." his voice broke and he pursed his lips, nodding slightly. "...or he doesn't."

Lestrade glanced down, his turn now to feel uncomfortable. "Will you let me take you at least?"

"Sure," John accepted this offer even though he'd rather be alone, as he was just simply grateful to be permitted to go at all.

He did need a little bit of help getting his legs to shift at first, and he was greatly embarrassed when he stumbled and wound up clutching onto the other for support, his face and neck burning. Lestrade didn't seem to care so John did his best not to either. Greg turned his back as the doctor, with a bit of difficulty, changed into a fresh set of clothes that had been brought there by Anthea on Mycroft's orders, as he seemed to know exactly what John would want to do as soon as he woke up. John just about managed with his fingers in a splint, and he noticed the blooming bruises scattered over his torso, only then feeling the whining pain of them when he saw them.

Once he was dressed, the two men began their walk, which seemed to go on for miles even though it took them only two-minutes tops. John tried to pay no heed to the exhaustion eating up his strength as he went. His body seemed to be rejecting its usual intake of energy and settling with the minimal amount, desperate for him to go back to bed and sleep so it could mend. John kept telling himself that he would be able to sit down when he got to Sherlock's room, the thought of even just seeing the detective left him wrought with apprehension. He didn't know what he'd see, or what it'd be like, and now the concept of being there if things took a turn for the worse shook him to the core. How would he feel being nudged out of the room when the doctors rushed in after the line had turned flat? Would be able to act fast enough? To jump up to press the emergency button when Sherlock's chest stilled...

Greg paused a few feet away from the door, fidgeting on the spot as he tucked his hands into his pockets and watched the doctor's pallid face. "I'll be just down the hall if you need anything," he said. "Just give us a bell if you need something or just someone to talk to."

"Thanks, Greg," John just about managed, smiling faintly.

Lestrade nodded and, after long consideration, patted the other on the shoulder, turned and walked away. John looked after him almost longingly, now desperate not to be by himself. Curling and uncurling his unbroken fingers into his palm, he stood there staring fixedly at the ground, ignoring the curious looks he got as people, doctors and patients alike, passed him.

_**"You listen here, you better be okay. Because—I don't know what I'd do without you...you just think about that, alright? You hear me, Sherlock Holmes...you understand..." **_

These words waltzed around his head as he tentatively approached the door. It was Sherlock's door. That fact nearly hurt. It hurt to know that he'd gotten his wish and there was no going back now, and that after everything nothing was keeping them apart but his own selfish fears. He **needed** to be there for Sherlock. No matter how much it frightened him. He grasped the handle.

His brow furrowed as he could swear he heard voices. For an instant, his muscles went lax and his face sank, and everything was okay. The cracks and splinters in his world were blended and washed over, they no longer existed, and things seemed, for the first time in the longest of times, okay. Then he realised it wasn't Sherlock's voice he was hearing. The voice was loud, and far too light, and he knew immediately it was Mycroft.

"... You to do this, Sherlock. If not for me, then for Mummy..."

Do what? John didn't understand. He silenced even his breathing so not to miss a thing, practically with his cheek pressed against the door just to ensure he didn't miss anything.

"Don't play dirty, Mycroft. Don't you dare bring her into this just to bully me into going with your plans. You want me to take John into hiding too?"

Sherlock's voice was like a breeze passing over John, yet he couldn't discard the unknown meanings of the words he was saying.

"No, as a matter of fact, the doctor must be convinced that you are deceased. Moriarty had no interest in John, he won't be a target, but he needs to believe that you are dead. If he believes, Moriarty's men will believe. If you continue to—exist so to speak in the public eye, John will be at risk. If you ceased to exist, he will be protected."

There was a brief pause, a pause that almost killed John whose world becoming fractured once more and this time, it seemed it would truly break apart.

"I never thought you'd do this to me, Mycroft." Sherlock sounded, if John wasn't convinced the detective would never portray this emotion not even to his own brother, hurt. "The one person I care about more than anyone...you know he's the only one...you _**know**_ how much he..." he broke off.

"I'm sorry, but you know I'm right, which is why it hurts so much. Why should John's world stop...he has family he will hurt if he disappears, Sherlock...friends...the few people you are capable of hurting will know, Mummy and I."

"What about John? What would this do to him?"

"He'll be looked after," Mycroft turned his back to him and drifted around the room aimlessly. "I give you my word, I will continue to watch over him, keep you..." he searched for the correct word. "...informed."

John felt like he was drowning in the sharp edged words that were pouring down on top of him. He gripped the door handle hard, restraining the trembles that threatened to zigzag down his arm so not to rattle it and draw attention to his presence. This was all happening on the other side of this door. Part of it was about him, and he wasn't even involved in this decision, this massive decision that would distort his life just as much as it would Mycroft's or even Sherlock's. John wanted to be a part of it, yet his answer was blatant. He didn't care what happened to him, just so long as he could be by this fantastic man. He wasn't ashamed to admit that Sherlock Holmes had become a part of him. Like water in the human body, a mass of the material in John was in fact Sherlock. Without that, he would lose the ability to function properly. He couldn't believe that Sherlock and Mycroft were talking about faking his death so to keep John safe...a massive, gargantuan lie that would devastate John beyond repair to ensure he was still physically living. What about emotionally?

John didn't want to hear Sherlock's response. He considered running away, fleeing down the halls and the very hospital in fact and just leave it all behind him so he'd never have to hear that lie wind itself around him even though he knew the truth. However, John knew he couldn't leave because that, also, would result in a world without Sherlock Holmes. Broadening his shoulders, he turned the handle and shoved open the door.

**[SH]**

Mycroft started as the door swung open, and his face went taut when his eyes landed upon the dishevelled doctor, who was standing there livid and shaken, staring hard at him and only him. Mycroft clenched his jaw and tried to lift his head higher as if he was above caring, as if trying to stay afloat of the guilt but failing miserably. He lowered it and cast his eyes down to his shoes.

"We were only thinking of what was best for y—" he began tenderly.

"Get out," John interjected, his tone lower than either of the Holmes brothers had heard it before. He kept his gaze trained on Mycroft, despite feeling Sherlock watching him like one would feel a tap on the shoulder. If he looked at the detective, he knew he would crumble and he didn't want to do that in front of Mycroft.

Sherlock had never seen John look like that before. He was aware that the doctor had never been really intimidated by his brother, which was one of the various things about him that impressed Sherlock, but this was very different. John looked like things could turn ugly if Mycroft dared to put a foot wrong or dared to offer any words of falsehoods or apologies. For once, the older Holmes brother had no retort and no smugness in his features, and while Sherlock felt joy at seeing his brother look that way, he was mostly filled with remorse and fault. He saw the anguish cut into his friend's face, and that in turn cut itself into him.

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and gave a minute nod. He wouldn't skirt around John as the doctor had done to him a few days ago now, he still had a tad of pride remaining. When the two men were standing shoulder to shoulder, Mycroft glanced down to John who was still staring fixedly where he had once stood, refusing to grant him even half a glimpse.

"I am sorry, John," Mycroft murmured.

Before John could respond, Mycroft strode out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The silence that possessed the room was excruciating for the pair of them. John bowed his head, breathing heavily, and Sherlock was sure that he was trying not to cry. The consulting detective wanted to stand, to touch his arm, and force him to look at him so he could read those eyes and find out what was happening but he couldn't shift. The tiniest of movements was agonizing, and it would probably make matters worse than better. Therefore, he allowed John to take his time despite the slowness of it all was driving him surely insane. His heart throbbed even in his throat as he watched the doctor's back, not even blinking just in case he missed something.

"Would you have said yes?" John finally spoke. Sherlock caught his breath. John heard it and closed his eyes as though he had been punched in the gut. "Just answer me that, Sherlock."

Sherlock came close to seeing the very fine thread connecting himself and John at that instant. It was so delicate, so frail, that if he was too brash or said a single thing wrong, it would snap in half and he would lose John for good. Mycroft probably would have hissed in his ear that that was what they needed; they needed John to leave so he could be safe but right then Sherlock cared very little about any of that. He thought only about their relationship and that, above all, was precious to him. To think he would overthrow reason to ensure the safety of a relationship with a fellow human being...it seemed preposterous even to him.

"John," he started, noting how the other flinched somewhat as he spoke. "I—I would have done anything to ensure your safety." He swallowed hard. "No matter how much it pained me." His voice snapped like a dry twig and he clasped a hand over his mouth in a kind of shock at hearing himself falter. He could never explain why he found it so damned hard to speak right then, why the contents of his heart were not as easy to exhibit as those of his mind. Something always jerked him back. It was too much of a vulnerable position to put himself in, that concept of being so hideously exposed was utterly terrifying to him. He hastily dropped his hand from his mouth and pressed on. "Even if that meant hurting you...lying to you...I was not comforted by the fact that, once Moriarty's connections were dismantled, I would be able to return to you...because I knew you'd never be able to look at me the same way you do now without thinking that I was the one that lied and hurt you. Then I would truly lose you. I've never...needed anyone let alone **wanted** anyone."

The tears welled in John's eyes. "So you're saying..." he rotated moderately, still not meeting the detective's gaze. "You would have said no?"

"No...I would have said yes..."

John closed his eyes. Was it possible to feel his heart wilt and fall apart the way it was then? Was it possible to feel it fall apart into these broken halves and feel the hideous gap in between them?

"As I said, I would have done anything to make sure you were safe," Sherlock continued. "I'd have risked you hating me until the end of your days so you remained alive. It would have killed me...but I would have done that..."

"For me?" John finished for him, finally locking their eyes together, a look that felt more physical than if they were holding hands.

Those pale eyes watched him closely, more intently than they had done before and more intent than John had ever seen them even when he was at a crime scene. This was a different kind of attentive, a kind that John didn't think he'd ever see in Sherlock.

"There was only me once," Sherlock forced himself to speak, inhaling shakily after he confessed this. "Only me I had to think about and I didn't even do that much. I never cared for myself let alone anyone else. This is..." his mouth clamped shut in a last feeble attempt to amputate the words and dispose of them but he opened it again. "...really scary for me."

John's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Scary?" he echoed.

Sherlock's high cheekbones turned a light shade of pink as he nodded. "You've scared me, John."

John bit the inside of his cheek and when Sherlock went to speak again, he held up his hand, silencing him. "Let me have a word in this," he said gently, even smiling wryly. "I didn't mean to scare you. It wasn't my intention. When I first met your brother, he told me that walking the streets of London with you, meant I would see the battlefield. You told me once that I shouldn't go looking for a new war, that I'd been sent back to England to leave that all behind me...maybe you're right, like you always bloody are, but I don't care. I know...that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and people go to hell and back to keep the best things they have, in their lives. Maybe not the kind of hell we go through, but hell all the same, and I guess that I'm willing to do anything to stay with you."

He cringed at every word he uttered, not knowing the entire time whether these were things Sherlock wanted to hear. Everything he said, he wondered if Sherlock was panicking and getting ready to back out again. When things got too close and too emotional, he would step back and do everything he could to keep it out, adding extra bricks to his already tall wall to ensure the same mistake wouldn't happen again. Although the possibility of him scaring Sherlock away was reasonably high, John couldn't stop. "If you try to push me away again, I will just come back. No matter what shitty things you say, no matter what shitty things you do to keep me out, I won't let you."

Sherlock didn't say a word, and John's entire head felt like a balloon filled with scalding hot lava, a blush scathing his cheeks as he stood there, awkwardly awaiting a response. When nothing was said for some time, he felt an icy puncture in his stomach and he cleared his throat. "You must be tired; I'll let you get some rest..."

As John went to go, Sherlock said, "Let me see your hand."

Simply relieved that the detective had spoken and hadn't just told him to leave him alone, John complied. He moved rigidly over towards the bed, his stomach flipping as if there was no weight to it at all when he saw closely how exhausted and drained his friend looked. Just looking at him reminded John that he had been holding this man in his arms not long ago, and he was dying. He was losing him and now they were in this place together and neither of them was dying now. They were both fine...

He winced as his broken fingers were shifted as they rested into Sherlock's palm. It took John a second to get over the fact that Sherlock was touching him again, and his skin was warm and real beneath his hand. Sherlock studied the injury, ensuring to keep his movements to a minimum to prevent causing his companion further pain. His face was unreadable, and John strained to figure out what emotions were going haywire behind those pale, still eyes that looked ever tranquil though fizzing with thoughts.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Sherlock inquired gently, leaning his eyes up to brush against John's.

John inhaled shakily. "Not as much. To be honest I didn't really care."

"Why's that?" Sherlock said automatically even though the answer was already sitting there like a brightly wrapped present in his head. However, he refused to open it. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear John say it.

"I was worried sick about you," John admitted.

For a second, the right hand corner of Sherlock's mouth tilted upwards into a secret smile and then it smoothed out like a crease in a garment of clothing. Of course, John saw it, but played along by feigning ignorance. Then he suddenly switched into a serious mode.

"Asking how I am, you idiot," John said abruptly, even surprising Sherlock. "You're the one..." he seemed at a loss as to what to do, settling on trying to persuade him to lie down. Sherlock only watched him, straight-faced and curious as the doctor stumbled over his words.

"John," he tenderly spoke. "I'm fine."

Dissatisfied with this reply, John continued. "Do you need anything? Want anything? I can get it for you?"

"Just sit down," when John went to collect the chair, he added, "On the bed, John."

John looked bewildered and, frowning slightly, did as he was asked, sitting down on the very edge of the bed rigidly. Sherlock decided this would have to do and he kept a hold of John's hand, which he had been holding the entire time. John, seemingly have forgotten about it, remembered it now and his face went another shade of red.

The world in which Sherlock was missing, lingered in John's mind. That world seemed more of a disturbing, distant dream now, unable to creep into this place of warmth. That was the only way to describe what this instant was like. It was warm, it was familiar, it was right, and nothing could penetrate it right then. As cliché as it sounded, it was only the two of them, and John wouldn't have minded that being true. He wouldn't have minded existing in a world where it was just him and Sherlock. He could imagine Sherlock going insane with the lack of cases, but he knew he could handle it. John would gladly handle every fit of rage, every episode of boredom, every biting remark because all of that was better than having none of that at all. That was what he had come close to. He had been on the brink of living in a world without Sherlock.

Tears brimmed in his eyes before he could put a stop to his miserable train of thought, and he hung his head so to conceal them. Just as John had seen Sherlock's smile, Sherlock saw the tears fogging the doctor's eyes. He wasn't certain at what to do at first. He was never good at handling crying people, yet this wasn't exactly just another person. It was John, and Sherlock acted on instinct when he soothed his thumb over the back of the other's hand.

"I'm tired, John," Sherlock said after what felt like a very long time. "Will you stay with me?"

"I really wasn't planning on going anywhere," John replied, sniffing as he went to stand only to be pulled back once again.

"Lie with me?"

John regarded Sherlock carefully, and then cleared his throat, abiding to this request. Sherlock shifted to the left to lend John more space, and the doctor remained on top of the covers whilst Sherlock lay under it. The consulting detective appeared to be struggling to find a persuasive argument to get John to join him, so instead he kept his mouth shut and accepted this.

They faced one other. John grazed his eyes over the detective's nose and his Cupid 's bow lips and curls resting over his forehead. Sherlock ran his fingertips over the splint of John's fingers, paying great attention to how much pressure hurt and what comforted the broken bones.

It wasn't long before Sherlock had given up trying to stay awake and had drifted off to sleep, and John continued to watch him. He didn't want Sherlock to fade into nothingness, and if he closed his eyes, he feared exactly that would happen. He felt a bit uncomfortable lying on top of the covers in a hospital bed next to his very male roommate, though it didn't bother him enough to leave or move. He knew it would be a long time before he was okay with being...with feeling the way he did about Sherlock Holmes, but for now this wasn't about him or even them. It was about Sherlock singularly, and it would be that way until they were back home...

_**[You can sink to the bottom of the sea  
>Just don't go without me<strong>_**] **

**TBC**

**That was an exhausting chapter to write if I'm completely honest. I just wanted it to flow nicely and now I am somewhat pleased with it, I almost can't believe I finished it though simultaneously thrilled. I wrote this chapter so differently in one version, it was very brief and I am sort of sorry there are so many feelings and angst in this chapter, though it was necessary I think. I think I needed to show everyone's feelings, and how hard it would be for all of them to recover from this. A few chapters left to go, around four or maybe even five if I find enough to talk about within reason. I just want to thank you, once more, for your patience and I hope you continue to review and favourite and I will do my best not to have such a delay between now and the next update. **

**The lyrics at the end are from a beautiful song called 'C'est La Mort' by The Civil Wars and have become my sort of John/Sherlock theme song. It just connects gorgeously to their story and how John will literally follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth no matter the consequences. I insist you listen, I beseech and implore you to. You won't regret it unless you have an objection to beautiful meaningful music.**


	16. Fifteen: A Change

"You look tired, John."

No matter what Mycroft Holmes could have possibly said to him right then, John would have still glowered just as harshly at him. He wanted to retort that he had been with Sherlock all night, something the older brother should have also done, yet he was too tired even to do that. He'd had hardly any sleep that night. The throbbing ache in his fingers played a small part in this, however. No, it was mostly to do with Sherlock having a nightmare.

Now, Sherlock Holmes would never refer to what he experienced as a nightmare, as those were for children and cowards exclusively, both of which he passionately differentiated himself from. He just claimed he could not remember anything of the sort happening. He denied jolting up in bed and grasping John's hand so tightly it sprung him from his sleep.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?" John had gasped as soon as he registered the look of sheer terror distorting the detective's features. He'd risen to his feet, putting his hand to the other's chest so to ease him back down, feeling Sherlock's heart punching his palm.

"My s—my s—" Sherlock slurred in response, his eyelids heavy. "My skull...breaking..."

It was such a bizarre remark that, for a couple of seconds at least, John stood there bemused. By the time he had mustered the ability to respond, Sherlock's eyes had closed completely and he had resumed a placid sleep. John hovered for a while, hand still resting over the detective's chest, not sure whether to remove it in case Sherlock jolted up again, left in tatters by fright that he, presently, refused to acknowledge. Eventually, John had settled himself back down in his chair, but still he didn't shut his eyes. Instead, he sat there watching over his dearest friend. The hours slid away from him, evaporating until the intruding vapours of morning timidly introduced themselves.

John was intending to steal an hour's kip while Sherlock was having his wound seen to, begrudgingly he would hasten to add, when Mycroft Holmes, still red at the tips of his ears from their last meeting, asked him to breakfast to discuss 'matters' as he called them. Reluctantly John agreed, and so there he was sitting opposite the older Holmes brother with an untouched plate of jam smeared toast sitting before him.

Creasing his brow, Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh. "I understand your hostility, John," he said.

"Do you?" John crossed his arms over his chest, reclining back in his seat.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and ignored the comment. "But can we cast that aside for a moment to discuss the issue of my little brother's life?" He'd struck a chord, and its note played beautifully and clearly over John's face. Straightening himself up and broadening his shoulders, Mycroft pressed on. "I still insist that he goes into hiding..."

"Play dead you mean?" John interjected, unable to prevent himself from doing so. "A bit of a hitch in your plan there, Mycroft, because um...I'm not letting that man out of my sight."

"If you had allowed me to finish my sentence, then you would already know that I have no intention of separating you two," Mycroft said coolly, holding his nose up high.

John frowned; despite his confusion, he didn't ease up on the derisive tone. "Care to elaborate?"

"Gladly...provided I am not interrupted again," Mycroft paused for a moment, a moment in which the doctor sat in complete and utter silence to demonstrate that the other had his full attention. "You will be going into hiding with my brother. Do not be alarmed, we will be certain to contact your family members to assure them of your safety, and they too will be temporarily moved so as not to be..." he mulled over the correct term. "...disturbed."

"Where and how long will we be staying?" John asked hoarsely.

"At the house in which we grew up," Mycroft replied, opening a file that was resting in between his hands on the table and pushing a photograph towards John. "As for the length of time you will be remaining there—well, that entirely depends on how long it takes for us to track down the last of Moriarty's accomplices."

The photograph was of the front of an absolutely gorgeous house, the largest John had ever set eyes on. There were nine windows upon the face of the building, one of which was circular and belonged supposedly to the attic. Sitting at the foot of the house, almost like a carpet, was a square of perfectly cut grass, where tall red flowers that John could not name grew. Tall trees stood proud and tall in the background almost like shading to compliment the residence, and it all looked very picturesque and ideal. The doctor couldn't believe that was once the place Sherlock called home, and struggled to imagine a forlorn dark haired child running around and playing on those grounds. John's mind strayed as he wondered if Sherlock Holmes had ever run in his life out of sheer enjoyment and energy rather than chasing after a criminal.

"It's nice," John murmured numbly, his thoughts elsewhere.

"Yes, I suppose it would be to someone like you," Mycroft said, more out of ignorance than spite.

"So let me get this straight," John nudged the picture back over to its owner and then clasped his hands together. "You want Sherlock and me to go into hiding until you—kill all of Moriarty's henchmen so to speak, and then when all that's over and done with, we come back to London? Seems a bit simplistic."

"Glad you think so, John. It took me hours to simplify it down to your level," Mycroft appeared genuinely pleased with himself at this. "All I require is your cooperation and permission."

"Never needed either of those before in the past," John grumbled, referring to the numerous occasions where a long black car would sidle up next to him and a woman would step out, beckoning him inside so she could deliver him like a neatly assembled parcel into the eager hands of Mycroft Holmes.

He reflected over it for a minute or two. His family would be informed, so he needn't worry about Harry turning to the bottle for comfort. Still, what about Stamford? Lestrade, Molly, Mike, Mrs Hudson...Sarah? Were they included when Mycroft said 'family members'? John doubted it, and he felt a lump rise in his throat when he thought about all of those people he cared about thinking he was gone. All the same, what other option was there? If Sherlock were to return to Baker Street, he would be in danger and John also. If John didn't cooperate, what would happen then? Would Sherlock still go into hiding? Mycroft didn't know how long it would take for all of Moriarty's men to be traced. John could scarcely manage a couple of months without Sherlock...imagine a year or three years...his chest constricted at the notion.

"Are you..." he started but broke off, clearing his throat and pursing his lips, urging the words to come to him. "Can you guarantee that this will work?"

Mycroft looked indignant at such a remark. "Of course," was his blunt answer.

John heaved a sigh, resting his chin on the heel of his palm and gazing off elsewhere. "When we come back, what then?"

"Then you will be able to go on as things were before," Mycroft said. "Though of course your blog will have to be taken down as it's caused far too much trouble and hassle."

John narrowed his eyes yet said nothing. He would miss London...as Mike had once put it, he couldn't stand to be anywhere else. He couldn't help but question how Sherlock would cope without the city and the cases. He'd probably go insane. He kept reminding himself it wasn't permanent, and that maybe the fresh air and the quiet would do both him and Sherlock some good.

"Okay," was all John could manage, and the deal was done.

Not another word was exchanged. Mycroft just gathered his things, scraped back his chair, and left John sitting there, his breakfast now cold and forgotten.

**[SH]**

Something was wrong with John. He had something on his mind, Sherlock could tell. He noticed it the instant the door opened and the doctor had let himself in, not even bringing himself to meet his eye. John was just staring fixedly at the floor as he grumbled a greeting, helping himself back down in his chair. Oh, why must he be so predictable at times?

"What's the matter?" Sherlock inquired. John's cheeks flushed vibrantly with colour and he lowered his head down further still.

"Can't you work it out for yourself?" John whispered, rubbing his hands absentmindedly together. "You are the world's only consulting detective after all."

Sherlock could have worked it out within a matter of seconds if he really wanted to but, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, he wanted to be told. He wanted to hear it from John; he didn't want to speak for him all of the time. For other people, yes, because they were idiots. John was only part idiot, and so Sherlock wanted to hear him every now and again.

John exhaled heavily, giving in. "I spoke to Mycroft..."

Sherlock tensed slightly. "About going into hiding I suppose?" John nodded. "Does he still want me to leave you?" John shook his head. "He wants you to go with me?" nod. "How predictable of my brother...what did you say?"

"I said okay," John said, finally locking eyes with the detective. Only for a brief moment, before turning them back down to the ground.

Sherlock wasn't exactly surprised; he would never demote himself to that. He was—relieved. Relieved and bizarrely disappointed. He was confused as to what to dub what he was feeling, he wasn't even sure it had a name. He was tempted to ask John to help him out, yet he couldn't bring himself to.

"Why did you do that?"

John frowned deeply. "Why did I do what?"

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock repeated. "Sentiment? I don't quite understand." He leaned his pale eyes towards John.

John noted, sadly, that Sherlock had latched onto the term 'sentiment', like how a child would deem all light as day and all dark as night. "Not everything is sentiment, Sherlock," John told him softly. "I mean, it is partially involved I suppose, but there are many things contributing to my decision."

Sherlock blinked. "Such as?"

John shrugged, heat crawling up the nape of his neck up into his cheeks and ears. "I don't know! Lots of things!"

"Such as?"

John buried his face into his hands. "You're hopeless..."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock bewilderedly apologised, not entirely sure of the reason why.

"No, don't apologise. I just...I need to simplify it a bit. I don't know what made me make my decision. I just know that I said okay for a reason. I think...I think I just couldn't bear to lose you again..." the rawness of these words had left him feeling exposed, and he inhaled sharply and shakily.

Sherlock observed the other closely. He still didn't quite grasp what was being said; though he was aware he should feel touched or moved by it. In a way, he supposed he was.

"Thank you?"

John restrained the laugh that frothed in his mouth, clasping a hand over it to act as a second barrier. "You don't have to thank me either," he added when he noticed Sherlock was glowering at him.

"I think I do. You're leaving a lot behind, John. I'm leaving nothing behind..."

The laughs were washed icily away and John suddenly felt very heavy indeed as he sat there, studying his friend's expressionless face. The features were all straight, not an inch out of place to indicate exactly what the detective was feeling at that given time. The pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, neither knowing exactly what to say to make the situation easier or lighter.

"What about Mrs Hudson? And Lestrade?" John tried meekly.

"They'll both be informed," Sherlock said flatly. "Lestrade is someone my brother will come to depend on and Mrs Hudson—well, let's just say a bit of sentiment on Mycroft's part will also keep her involved. He may even ask her to come with us."

"You know where we're going then?" John couldn't deny feeling a little better knowing that Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were going to be aware, though he still felt horrifically guilty about Sarah.

"Of course. We'll be leaving in two days, knowing Mycroft. Soon as possible but still enough time to get everything organized." He swept his eyes swiftly over John. "You look tired, John."

"Observant as ever," John stifled an ill-timed yawn.

"You need sleep," he quirked an eyebrow. "Why didn't you sleep?"

John wasn't sure if Sherlock genuinely didn't know or whether he was feigning ignorance. Either way, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

"Doesn't matter," he groaned, easing himself up onto his feet. "I'm going to try to steal an hour then, if you don't need me for anything."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all."

**[SH]**

The wind was wickedly cold. It rushed at him, weaving itself cunningly into his skin so that the chill would graze against his bones. Every element that life had to offer was amplified until it was practically screaming. His heart was fluttering nervously within the chambers of his chest. It was as though it knew what was going to happen. The world seemed so distant; he felt the misery of never going to those places again steal over him. Tears skated down his cheeks as he thought of never experiencing again...never waking up again to see the morning, never holding his violin again, never tasting one of Mrs Hudson's mince pies again that he secretly looked forward to, never finishing a book again, never feeling that swell of excitement when Lestrade called with a new case, never glancing up from where he sat to see John struggling with the shopping through the door...Sherlock didn't think it possible to miss so many things.

One small step forwards and all control would be surrendered. That was what was most frightening to him. Giving that one thing over, the one thing he had always ensured was his own...was daunting. He wasn't even thinking about whether or not it would hurt when he met the ground that lay below him like an already dug grave.

The world toppled over like a backdrop on stage losing its balance, revealing its artificiality. Everyone would have paused in the audience, and the illusion would be torn. That's what it was like...falling forwards. There was that silence. He couldn't hear anything, not even his own breath, or his own heartbeats. Even when he met the ground, there was not a sound to be heard. Then, all of a sudden, there was a faint noise that gradually gathered strength and volume.

"Oh...Jesus no... God no..."

Just that over and over again, until it became like thunder and then—

-Sherlock heard his own breathing again that came out like gasps, and his eyes sprung open. He could not stop shaking.

**[SH]**

John couldn't sleep, and this left him feeling aggravated as he lay uncomfortably on his back, waiting to drift off. He was so exhausted and worn out, he'd expected to shut down the instant his head settled against the pillow, but it was rather the opposite. Being back in his own hospital room felt...wrong. The murmur of the hospital, the brightness of the afternoon...it all seemed to intensify to the extent where he let out a loud moan of exasperation and sat up.

"Bloody hell," he growled. "No doubt I'll have another sleepless night too..."

There was a light knock on the door. Immediately, his mind bounded over to Mycroft, and he felt the urge to yell 'Get lost' as loud as he could. Still, he didn't want to risk it being a timid nurse who had already been verbally assaulted by the sharp tongues of the Holmes brothers, or even if it was Lestrade paying him a visit, so instead he called for whoever it was to come in. John honestly did not expect Mrs Hudson, looking the most frail and dishevelled, he'd ever seen her. Instinctively, he bolted up onto his feet.

Her eyes brimmed instantly with tears, and her chin was quivering a little. John's heart felt awfully heavy and he reached out to touch her shoulder, which felt unhealthily thin under his hand. She covered it with her own, and gave a faint watery smile.

Right before Sherlock was announced missing, Mrs Hudson had received a call. It had been from a man that she had been seeing recently, a man whom she had not yet named. He'd asked her to meet him immediately, and that he'd left his wife, so he desperately needed to meet with her. She'd done just that, popping out hoping she could bring him back with her, assuming that was what he wanted from her. She had waited for him for forty minutes at Hyde's Park, and was about to give up when her phone rang. She had answered to hear a voice telling her to remain where she was or else, and she had glimpsed down to see a red dot hovering over her chest. After that, Mrs Hudson claimed not to recall much, at least not with much clarity. However, the short of it was that she had been ordered to slowly enter a car, and not to draw attention to herself. Only Mrs Hudson currently knew the remainder of the story.

"Are you okay?" John asked, leading her over to the bed to ease her down on as she was trembling so badly.

Bringing forth a tissue to dab at her cheeks, she waved a dismissive hand at him. "Excuse my face for a minute, dear. I'm sorry." She sniffed and, whilst beaming at him, clasped his hand. "I really should be the one asking you that."

"I'm fine, honestly," John said as brightly as possible. "Just a couple of broken bones. No harm done. Sherlock came off worse than me." He tensed before he could stop himself, finding it almost unreal that he'd been holding the man not long ago believing with every ounce of his being that he was going to lose him. He felt battered with remorse for casting that terrible memory aside and for feeling the slightest bit resentful towards the detective for disturbing his sleep. His bloody sleep! He'd have been so grateful for that a couple of days previous when the world was dismal and Sherlock was absent.

"I've brought some of your things," the landlady hiccoughed damply. "This is the last chance I get to see the pair of you before you bugger off to wherever it is you're going." John grinned at this, glad to hear some of the strength return to her voice. "I have to leave in a minute or two but I wanted to say goodbye. You two have become like..._**sons**_ to me. I guess this is how mothers feel when they send their children off to school for the first time..."

"I don't think it's _**exactly**_ the same but I see where you're coming from. You will be sorely missed; I can tell you that now."

"I'm sure Sherlock can't wait to see the back of me..."

"Come on now, you know that's not true at all. He just has a funny way of—showing that he cares."

Mrs Hudson let out a tiny shard of a giggle. "You're telling me!" then her features softened. "Take care of him, John. He can be a bit of a clot sometimes."

"You're telling me," John returned.

Initially, he'd been comforted by the fact that she was going to be aware of what was happening, and that she wouldn't be fed the false information that something had happened to them. Now, he felt the weight in not only his chest but in his entire being as he thought about how dearly he would miss Mrs Hudson.

She touched his cheek dotingly the way his grandmother used to do and he felt like a child all over again. "You look after yourself too, Doctor," she said.

"Take care, Mrs Hudson."

**[SH]**

The scissors whispered scathingly as he cut away more of his hair, watching absentmindedly as it spiralled down like a wilted petal into the bathroom sink. He had never so much as trimmed his own hair in his life, but when the nurse had tried to do it for him he just couldn't shake the feeling that a stranger was touching him so intimately and, after delivering a persuasive argument (or as John would call it, throwing a temper tantrum), she conceded to allow him to do it himself, under her supervision, of course.

Sherlock paid no heed as she grimaced. In fact, he was half tempted to tease her, and hack away even more ruthlessly at his hair, yet he refrained in case she tried to take over again.

It was Mycroft's suggestion, that he cut his hair. He also recommended that Sherlock abandon his usual attire at least until he and John were at the location, and had asked Mrs Hudson to go pick him up some conspicuous, less-Sherlock-clothes. The landlady had never been handed so many pound notes in her life and held them almost like a nervous, inexperienced person would hold a newborn child.

"It's an idiotic notion, Mycroft," Sherlock had said initially, glowering from his position on the bed, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. "Why don't you just bundle me up in scarves and a pair of sunglasses? Or better yet, why don't you buy me a Halloween mask? It'd be much cheaper, and less of a waste of everyone's time."

Mycroft let out an aggravating chuckle. "Oh, it is appealing, dear brother. But no, this should just about do it. You're in a dire need of a haircut anyway. Mummy would be appalled if she saw how long and unkempt it is."

That was that. Sherlock had reluctantly surrendered and followed instruction without another word, although he didn't entirely abandon the filthy looks and sour expression.

"What did you do to your hair?" was the first thing John said as he let himself into the detective's room later on that day.

Sherlock glanced up from his book, casting the doctor a momentary sideways glimpse before returning back to the page. "It was against my will."

It was the shortest John had ever seen it, and, while it was perhaps a bit too brutal a cut, it wasn't terrible. It just didn't look like Sherlock. Sherlock noticed him staring and exhaled heavily, closing his book.

"I forgot how mediocre things like _**hair**_ and appearances can make such an impression on a mind such as yours," he said, not in a spiteful manner but nonetheless it made John blush. "I don't care how it looks, John."

"No, it looks fine," John mumbled, rubbing his hands together to distract himself. He didn't know why, but what Sherlock had said stung a little. He had always liked to fancy that the detective saw him as someone...as someone that was at least somewhat superior compared to the usual person, and he felt he had somehow disappointed him by reacting in such a way.

"It looks daft doesn't it?" Sherlock added after an elongated pause that they had found themselves enveloped by. He didn't look up; he studied his hands, as though engraving their very appearance into his skull.

John snorted. "I wouldn't say that," he said, smiling to himself.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "What would you say then?"

John considered this for a moment. "I would say...that it may take some getting used to." He drew himself closer to the detective, planting himself down on the edge of the bed. For some reason, he felt the urge just to touch Sherlock. Just touch him. Ruffle his hair or pat his knee, but everything just screeched inappropriate down his ear, so his hands remained stationary clasped in his lap.

_**A brief explanation and apology for my prolonged absence; I've been going through a lot of personal stuff and writing this story or any fanfiction material at all, just didn't appeal to me. In all honesty I was seriously contemplating abandoning this story altogether. However, I have decided to finish it. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter despite its short length. **_


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